THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 


THE  W      ,   ^^..^_ 

SENSE    OF    BEAUTY 


BEING 


The  Outlines  of  Esthetic  Theory 


BY 

/ 
GEOKGE   SANTAYANA 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1896 


COPYRIGHT,   1896,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Snaith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  little  work  contains  tlie  chief  ideas  gathered 
together  for  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  theory  and 
history  of  aesthetics  given  at  Harvard  College  from 
1892  to  1895.  The  only  originality  I  can  claim  is 
that  which  may  result  from  the  attempt  to  put 
together  the  scattered  commonplaces  of  criticism 
into  a  system,  under  the  inspiration  of  a  naturalistic 
psychology.  I  have  studied  sincerity  rather  than 
novelty,  and  if  any  subject,  as  for  instance  the 
excellence  of  tragedy,  is  presented  in  a  new  light, 
the  change  consists  only  in  the  stricter  application 
to  a  complex  subject  of  the  principles  axjknowledged 
to  obtain  in  our  simple  judgments.  My  effort 
throughout  has  been  to  recall  those  fundamental 
aesthetic  feelings  the  orderly  extension  of  which 
yields  sanity  of  judgment  and  distinction  of  taste. 

The  influences  under  which  the  book  has  been 
written  are  rather  too  general  and  pervasive  to 
admit  of  specification ;  yet  the  student  of  philoso- 
phy will  not  fail  to  perceive  how  much  I  owe  to 


VI  PREFACE 

writers,  both  living  and  dead,  to  whom  no  honour 
could  be  added  by  my  acknowledgments.  I  have 
usually  omitted  any  reference  to  them  in  foot-notes 
or  in  the  text,  in  order  that  the  air  of  controversy 
might  be  avoided,  and  the  reader  might  be  enabled 
to  compare  what  is  said  more  directly  with  the 
reality  of  his  own  experience. 

G.  S. 

September,  1896. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction.    The  Methods  of  JEsthetics   .  1-13 

Part  I.    The  Nature  of  Beauty 

§    1.  The  philosophy  of  beauty  is  a  theory  of 

values 14 

§    2.  Preference  is  ultimately  irrational      .        .  18 

§    3.  Contrast  between  moral  and  sesthetic  values  23 

§    4.  Work  and  play 25 

§    5.  All  values  are  in  one  sense  aesthetic    .        .  28 

§    6.  Esthetic  consecration  of  general  principles  81 

§  7.  Contrast  of  aesthetic  and  physical  pleasures  35 
§    8.  The  differentia  of  aesthetic  pleasure  not  its 

disinterestedness 37 

§    9.  The  differentia  of  aesthetic  pleasure  not  its 

universality 40 

§  10.  The  differentia  of  aesthetic  pleasure :  its 

objectification 44 

§  11.  The  definition  of  beauty     ....  49 

Part  XL  The  Materials  of  Beauty 

§  12.  All  human  functions  may  contribute  to  the 

sense  of  beauty 53 

§  13.  The  influence  of  the  passion  of  love   .        .  56 

§  14.  Social  instincts  and  their  aesthetic  influence  62 

§  15.  The  lower  senses 65 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

§  16.  Sound 68 

§  17.  Colour 72 

§  18.  Materials  surveyed 76 


Part  III.    Form 

§  19.  There  is  a  beauty  of  form  . 

§  20.  Physiology  of  the  perception  of  form 

§  21.  Values  of  geometrical  figures 

§22.  Symmetry 

§  23.  Form  the  unity  of  a  manifold     . 

§  21.  Multiplicity  in  uniformity  . 

§  25.  Example  of  the  stars  .... 

§  26.  Defects  of  pure  multiplicity 

§  27.  ^Esthetics  of  democracy 

§  28.  Values  of  types  and  values  of  examples 

§  29.  Origin  of  types 

§  30.  The  average  modified  in  the  direction  of 
pleasure    

§31.  Are  all  things  beautiful  ?    . 

§  32.  Effects  of  indeterminate  form     . 

§  33.  Example  of  landscape 

§  34.  Extensions  to  objects  usually  not  regarded 
sesthetically 

§  35.  Further  dangers  of  indeterminateness 

§  36.  The  illusion  of  infinite  perfection 

§  37.  Organized  nature  the  source  of  appercep- 
tive forms 

§  38.  Utility  the  principle  of  organization  in 
nature 

§  39.  The  relation  of  utility  to  beauty 

§  40.  Utility  the  principle  of  organization  in  the 
arts 

§  41.  Form  and  adventitious  ornament 

§  42.  Form  in  words 


CONTENTS  ix 


PA6B 

171 
174 
176 

180 
185 


§  43.  Syntactical  form 

§  44.  Literary  form.     The  plot    . 

§  45.  Character  as  an  aesthetic  form 

§  46.  Ideal  characters  . 

§  47.  The  religious  imagination  . 

Part  IV.    Expression 

§  48.  Expression  defined 192 

§  49.  The  associative  process        ....  198 

§  50.  Kinds  of  value  in  the  second  term      .        .  201 

§  51.  Esthetic  value  in  the  second  term      .        .  205 

§  52.  Practical  value  in  the  same         .        .        .  208 

§  53.  Cost  as  an  element  of  effect        .         .        .  211 

§  54.  The  expression  of  economy  and  fitness       .  214 

§  55.  The  authority  of  morals  over  aesthetics  .  218 
§  56.  Negative  values  in  the  second  term  .  .221 
§  57.  Influence  of  the  first  term  in  the  pleasing 

expression  of  evil 226 

§  58.  Mixture   of    other  expressions,   including 

that  of  truth 228 

§  59.  The  liberation  of  self 233 

§  60.  The  sublime  independent  of  the  expression 

of  evil 239 

§61.  The  comic 245 

§62.  Wit 250 

§63.  Humour 253 

§  64.  The  grotesque 256 

§  65.  The  possibility  of  finite  perfection  .  .  258 
§  QQ.  The  stability  of  the  ideal    .        .        .        .263 

Conclusion 266-270 

Index 271-275 


INTRODUCTION 

The  sense  of  beauty  has  a  more  important  place 
in  life  than  aesthetic  theory  has  ever  taken  in  phi- 
losophy. The  plastic  arts,  with  poetry  and  music, 
are  the  most  conspicuous  monuments  of  this  hu- 
man interest,  because  they  appeal  only  to  contem- 
plation, and  yet  have  attracted  to  their  service, 
in  all  civilized  ages,  an  amount  of  effort,  genius, 
and  honour,  little  inferior  to  that  given  to  indus- 
try, war,  or  religion.  The  fine  arts,  however, 
where  aesthetic  feeling  appears  almost  pure,  are 
by  no  means  the  only  sphere  in  which  men  show 
their  susceptibility  to  beauty.  In  all  products  of 
human  industry  we  notice  the  keenness  with  which 
the  eye  is  attracted  to  the  mere  appearance  of 
things:  great  sacrifices  of  time  and  labour  are 
made  to  it  in  the  most  vulgar  manufactures ;  nor 
does  man  select  his  dwelling,  his  clothes,  or  his 
companions  without  reference  to  their  effect  on 
his  aesthetic  senses.  Of  late  we  have  even 
learned  that  the  forms  of  many  animals  are  due 
to  the  survival  by  sexual  selection  of  the  colours 
and  forms  most  attractive  to  the  eye.  There 
must  therefore  be  in  our  nature  a  very  radical 
and  wide-spread  tendency  to  observe  beauty,  and 
to  value  it.     No  account  of  the  principles  of  the 

B  1 


2  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

mind  can  be  at  all  adequate  that  passes  over  so 
conspicuous  a  faculty. 

That  aesthetic  theory  has  received  so  little 
attention  from  the  world  is  not  due  to  the  unim- 
portance of  the  subject  of  which  it  treats,  but 
rather  to  lack  of  an  adequate  motive  for  specu- 
lating upon  it,  and  to  the  small  success  of  tlie 
occasional  efforts  to  deal  with  it.  Absolute  curi- 
osity, and  love  of  comprehension  for  its  own 
sake,  are  not  passions  we  have  much  leisure  to 
indulge:  they  require  not  only  freedom  from 
affairs  but,  what  is  more  rare,  freedom  from  pre- 
possessions and  from  the  hatred  of  all  ideas  that 
do  not  make  for  the  habitual  goal  of  our  thought. 

Now,  what  has  chiefly  maintained  such  spec- 
ulation as  the  world  has  seen  has  been  either 
theological, passion  or  practical  use.  All  we  find, 
for  example,  written  about  beauty  may  be  divided 
into  two  groups :  that  group  of  writings  in  which 
philosophers  have  interpreted  aesthetic  facts  in 
the  light  of  their  metaphj'sical  principles,  and 
made  of  their  theory  of  taste  a  corollary  or  foot- 
note to  their  systems;  and  that  group  in  which 
artists  and  critics  have  ventured  into  philosophic 
ground,  by  generalizing  somewhat  the  maxims  of 
the  craft  or  the  comments  of  the  sensitive  ob- 
server. A  treatment  of  the  subject  at  once  direct 
and  theoretic  has  been  very  rare :  the  problems  of 
nature  and  morals  have  attracted  the  reasoners,  and 
the  description  and  creation  of  beauty  have  absorbed 
the  artists ;  between  the  two  reflection  upon  aesthetic 
experience  has  remained  abortive  or  incoherent. 


INTRODUCTION  3 

A  circumstance  that  has  also  contributed  to 
the  absence  or  to  the  failure  of-  aesthetic  specu- 
lation is  the  subjectivity  of  the  phenomenon  with 
which  it  deals.  Man  has  a  prejudice  against 
himself:  anything  which  is  a  product  of  his 
mind  seems  to  him  to  be  unreal  or  compara- 
tively insignificant.  We  are  satisfied  only  when 
we  fancy  ourselves  surrounded  by  objects  and 
laws  independent  of  our  nature.  The  ancients 
long  speculated  about  the  constitution  of  the 
universe  before  they  became  aware  of  that  mind 
which  is  the  instrument  of  all  speculation.  The 
moderns,  also,  even  within  the  field  of  psychol- 
ogy, have  studied  first  the  function  of  perception 
and  the  theory  of  knowledge,  by  which  we  seem 
to  be  informed  about  external  things;  they  have 
in  comparison  neglected  the  exclusively  subjec- 
tive and  human  department  of  imagination  and 
emotion.  We  have  still  to  recognize  in  practice 
the  truth  that  from  these  despised  feelings  of 
ours  the  great  world  of  perception  derives  all  its 
value,  if  not  also  its  existence.  Things  are  in- 
teresting because  we  care  about  them,  and  impor- 
tant because  we  need  them.  Had  our  perceptions 
no  connexion  with  our  pleasures,  we  should  soon 
close  our  eyes  on  this  world;  if  our  intelligence 
Avere  of  no  service  to  our  passions,  we  should  come 
to  doubt,  in  the  lazy  freedom  of  reverie,  whether 
two  and  two  make  four. 

Yet  so  strong  is  the  popular  sense  of  the 
unworthiness  and  insignificance  of  things  purely 
emotional,    that    those    who    have    taken    moral 


4  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

problems  to  heart  and  felt  their  dignity  have 
often  been  led  into  attempts  to  discover  some 
external  right  and  beauty  of  which  our  moral 
and  aesthetic  feelings  should  be  perceptions  or 
discoveries,  just  as  our  intellectual  activity  is,  in 
men's  opinion,  a  perception  or  discovery  of 
external  fact.  These  philosophers  seem  to  feel 
that  unless  moral  and  aesthetic  judgments  are 
expressions  of  objective  truth,  and  not  merely 
expressions  of  human  nature,  they  stand  con- 
demned of  hopeless  triviality.  A  judgment  is  not 
trivial,  however,  because  it  rests  on  human  feel- 
ings ;  on  the  contrary,  triviality  consists  in  abstrac- 
tion from  human  interests;  only  those  judgments 
and  opinions  are  truly  insignificant  which  wander 
beyond  the  reach  of  verification,  and  have  no  func- 
tion in  the  ordering  and  enriching  of  life. 

Both  ethics  and  aesthetics  have  suffered  much 
from  the  prejudice  against  the  subjective.  They 
have  not  suffered  more  because  both  have  a  sub- 
ject-matter which  is  partly  objective.  Ethics 
deals  with  conduct  as  much  as  with  emotion,  and 
therefore  considers  the  causes  of  events  and  their 
consequences  as  well  as  our  judgments  of  their 
value.  ^Esthetics  also  is  apt  to  include  the 
history  and  philosophy  of  art,  and  to  add  much 
descriptive  and  critical  matter  to  the  theory  of 
our  susceptibility  to  beauty.  A  certain  confusion 
is  thereby  introduced  into  these  inquiries,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  discussion  is  enlivened  by  ex- 
cursions into  neighbouring  provinces,  perhaps  more 
interesting  to  the  general  reader. 


INTRODUCTION  5 

We  may,  however,  distinguish  three  distinct 
elements  of  ethics  and  aesthetics,  and  three 
different  ways  of  approaching  the  subject.  The 
first  is  the  exercise  of  the  moral  or  aesthetic 
faculty  itself,  the  actual  pronouncing  of  judg- 
ment and  giving  of  praise,  blame,  and  precept. 
This  is  not  a  matter  of  science  but  of  character, 
enthusiasm,  niceness  of  perception,  and  fineness 
of  emotion.  It  is  aesthetic  or  moral  activity, 
while  ethics  and  aesthetics,  as  sciences,  are  intel- 
lectual activities,  having  that  aesthetic  or  moral 
activity  for  their  subject-matter. 

The  second  method  consists  in  the  historical 
explanation  of  conduct  or  of  art  as  a  part  of  an- 
thropology, and  seeks  to  discover  the  conditions 
of  various  types  of  character,  forms  of  polity, 
conceptions  of  justice,  and  schools  of  criticism 
and  of  art.  Of  this  nature  is  a  great  deal  of 
what  has  been  written  on  aesthetics.  The  phi- 
losophy of  art  has  often  proved  a  more  tempting 
subject  than  the  psychology  of  taste,  especially 
to  minds  which  were  not  so  much  fascinated  by 
beauty  itself  as  by  the  curious  problem  of  the 
artistic  instinct  in  man  and  of  the  diversity  of 
its  manifestations  in  history. 

The  third  method  in  ethics  and  aesthetics  is 
psychological,  as  the  other  two  are  respectively 
didactic  and  historical.  It  deals  with  moral  and 
aesthetic  judgments  as  phenomena  of  mind  and 
products  of  mental  evolution.  The  problem  here 
is  to  understand  the  origin  and  conditions  of 
these  feelings  and  their  relation   to   the  rest  of 


6  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

our  economy.  Such  an  inquiry,  if  pursued  suc- 
cessfully, would  yield  an  understanding  of  the 
reason  why  we  think  anything  right  or  beautiful, 
wrong  or  ugly;  it  would  thus  reveal  the  roots  of 
conscience  and  taste  in  human  nature  and  enable 
us  to  distinguish  transitory  preferences  and  ideals, 
which  rest  on  peculiar  conditions,  from  those  which, 
springing  from  those  elements  of  mind  which  all 
men  share,  are  comparatively  permanent  and  uni- 
versal. 

To  this  inquiry,  as  far  as  it  concerns  aesthetics, 
the  following  pages  are  devoted.  No  attempt  will 
be  made  either  to  impose  particular  appreciations 
or  to  trace  the  history  of  a.rt  a.nd  criticism.  The 
discussion  will  be  limited  to  the  nature  and  ele- 
ments of  our  a3sthetic  judgments.  It  is  a  theo- 
retical inquiry  and  has  no  directly  hortatory 
quality.  Yet  insight  into  the  basis  of  our  prefer- 
ences, if  it  could  be  gained,  would  not  fail  to 
have  a  good  and  purifying  influence  upon  them. 
It  would  show  us  the  futility  of  a  dogmatism  that 
would  impose  upon  another  man  judgments  and 
emotions  for  which  the  needed  soil  is  lacking  in 
his  constitution  and  experience;  and  at  the  same 
time  it  would  relieve  us  of  any  undue  diffidence 
or  excessive  tolerance  towards  aberrations  of  taste, 
when  we  know  what  are  the  broader  grounds  of 
preference  and  the  habits  that  make  for  greater 
and  more  diversified  sesthetic  enjoyment. 

Therefore,  although  nothing  has  commonly  been 
less  attractive  than  treatises  on  beauty  or  less  a 
guide  to  taste  than  disquisitions  upon  it,  we  may 


INTRODUCTION  7 

yet  hope  for  some  not  merely  theoretical  gain 
from  these  studies.  They  have  remained  so  often 
without  practical  influence  because  they  have 
been  pursued  under  unfavourable  conditions.  The 
writers  have  generally  been  audacious  meta- 
physicians and  somewhat  incompetent  critics; 
they  have  represented  general  and  obscure  prin- 
ciples, suggested  by  other  parts  of  their  philoso- 
phy, as  the  conditions  of  artistic  excellence  and 
the  essence  of  beauty.  But  if  the  inquiry  is 
kept  close  to  the  facts  of  feeling,  we  may  hope 
that  the  resulting  theory  may  have  a  clarifying 
effect  on  the  experience  on  which  it  is  based. 
That  is,  after  all,  the  use  of  theory.  If  when  a 
theory  is  bad  it  narrows  our  capacity  for  obser- 
vation and  makes  all  appreciation  vicarious  and 
formal,  when  it  is  good  it  reacts  favourably  upon 
our  powers,  guides  the  attention  to  what  is  really 
capable  of  affording  entertainment,  and  increases, 
by  force  of  new  analogies,  the  range  of  our  in- 
terests. Speculation  is  an  evil  if  it  imposes  a  for- 
eign organization  on  our  mental  life;  it  is  a  good 
if  it  only  brings  to  light,  and  makes  more  per- 
fect by  training,  the  organization  already  inherent 
in  it. 

We  shall  therefore  study  human  sensibility 
itself  and  our  actual  feelings  about  beauty,  and 
we  shall  look  for  no  deeper,  unconscious  causes 
of  our  sesthetic  consciousness.  Such  value  as 
belongs  to  metaphysical  derivations  of  the  nature 
of  the  beautiful,  comes  to  them  not  because  they 
explain  our  primary  feelings,  which  they  cannot 


8  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

do,  but  because  they  express,  and  in  fact  consti- 
tute, some  of  our  later  appreciations.  There  is 
no  explanation,  for  instance,  in  calling  beauty 
an  adumbration  of  divine  attributes.  Such  a 
relation,  if  it  were  actual,  would  not  help  us  at 
all  to  understand  why  the  symbols  of  divinity 
pleased.  But  in  certain  moments  of  contempla- 
tion, when  much  emotional  experience  lies  behind 
us,  and  we  have  reached  very  general  ideas  both 
of  nature  and  of  life,  our  delight  in  any  par- 
ticular object  may  consist  in  nothing  but  the 
thought  that  this  object  is  a  manifestation  of 
universal  principles.  The  blue  sky  may  come 
to  please  chiefly  because  it  seems  the  image  of 
a  serene  conscience,  or  of  the  eternal  youth  and 
purity  of  nature  after  a  thousand  partial  corrup- 
tions. But  this  expressiveness  of  the  sky  is  due 
to  certain  qualities  of  the  sensation,  which  bind 
it  to  all  things  happy  and  pure,  and,  in  a  mind 
in  which  the  essence  of  purity  and  happiness  is 
embodied  in  an  idea  of  God,  bind  it  also  to  that 
idea. 

So  it  may  happen  that  the  most  arbitrary  and 
unreal  theories,  which  must  be  rejected  as  general 
explanations  of  sesthetic  life,  may  be  reinstated 
as  particular  moments  of  it.  Those  intuitions 
which  we  call  Platonic  are  seldom  scientific,  they 
seldom  explain  the  phenomena  or  hit  upon  the 
actual  law  of  things,  but  they  are  often  the  liigh- 
est  expression  of  that  activity  which  they  fail  to 
make  comprehensible.  The  adoring  lover  cannot 
understand  the  natural  history  of  love;  for  he  is 


INTRODUCTION  9 

all  in  all  at  the  last  and  supreme  stage  of  its 
development.  Hence  the  world  has  always  been 
puzzled  in  its  judgment  of  the  Platonists;  their 
theories  are  so  extravagant,  yet  their  wisdom 
seems  so  great.  Platonism  is  a  very  refined  and 
beautiful  expression  of  our  natural  instincts,  it 
embodies  conscience  and  utters  our  inmost  hopes. 
Platonic  philosophers  liave  therefore  a  natural 
authority,  as  standing  on  heights  to  which  the 
vulgar  cannot  attain,  but  to  which  they  naturally 
and  half-consciously  aspire. 

When  a  man  tells  you  that  beauty  is  the  man- 
ifestation of  God  to  the  senses,  you  wish  you 
might  understand  him,  you  grope  for  a  deep  truth 
in  his  obscurity,  you  honour  him  for  his  elevation 
of  mind,  and  your  respect  may  even  induce  you  to 
assent  to  what  he  says  as  to  an  intelligible  propo- 
sition. Your  thought  may  in  consequence  be  dom- 
inated ever  after  by  a  verbal  dogma,  around  which 
all  your  sympathies  and  antipathies  will  quickly 
gather,  and  the  less  you  have  penetrated  the  origi- 
nal sense  of  your  creed,  the  more  absolutely  will 
you  believe  it.  You  will  have  followed  Mephis- 
topheles'  advice :  — 

Im  ganzen  haltet  euch  am  Worte, 
So  geht  euch  durch  die  sicliero  Pforte 
Zum  Tempel  der  Gewissheit  ein. 

Yet  reflection  might  have  shown  you  that  the 
word  of  the  master  held  no  objective  account  of 
the  nature  and  origin  of  beauty,  but  was  the 
vague  expression  of  his  highly  complex  emotions. 


10  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

It  is  one  of  the  attributes  of  God,  one  of  the 
perfections  which  we  contemplate  in  our  idea  of 
him,  that  there  is  no  duality  or  opposition 
between  his  will  and  his  vision,  between  the 
impulses  of  his  nature  and  the  events  of  his  life. 
This  is  what  we  commonly  designate  as  omnip- 
otence and  creation.  Now,  in  the  contemplation 
of  beauty,  our  faculties  of  perception  have  the 
same  perfection:  it  is  indeed  from  the  experience 
of  beauty  and  happiness,  from  the  occasional  har- 
mony between  our  nature  and  our  environment, 
that  we  draw  our  conception  of  the  divine  life. 
There  is,  then,  a  real  propriety  in  calling  beauty 
a  manifestation  of  God  to  the  senses,  since,  in 
the  region  of  sense,  the  perception  of  beauty 
exemplifies  that  adequacy  and  perfection  which 
in  general  we  objectify  in  an  idea  of  God. 

But  the  minds  that  dwell  in  the  atmosphere  of 
these  analogies  are  hardly  those  that  will  care  to 
ask  what  are  the  conditions  and  the  varieties  of 
this  perfection  of  function,  in  other  words,  how 
it  comes  about  that  we  perceive  beauty  at  all,  or 
liave  any  inkling  of  divinity.  Only  the  other 
philosophers,  those  that  wallow  in  Epicurus'  sty, 
know  anything  about  the  latter  question.  But  it 
is  easier  to  be  impressed  than  to  be  instructed, 
and  the  public  is  very  ready  to  believe  that  where 
there  is  noble  language  not  witliout  obscurity 
tliere  must  be  profound  knowledge.  We  should 
distinguish,  however,  the  two  distinct  demands 
in  tlie  case.  One  is  for  compreliension;  we  look 
for  the  theory  of  a  human  function  which  must 


INTRODUCTION  11 

cover  all  possible  cases  of  its  exercise,  whetiier 
noble  or  base.  This  the  Platonists  utterly  fail 
to  give  us.  The  other  demand  is  for  inspira- 
tion; we  wish  to  be  nourished  by  the  maxims 
and  confessions  of  an  exalted  mind,  in  whom  the 
aesthetic  function  is  pre-eminent.  By  responding 
to  this  demand  the  same  thinkers  may  win  our 
admiration. 

To  feel  beauty  is  a  better  thing  than  to  under- 
stand how  we  come  to  feel  it.  To  have  imagina- 
tion and  taste,  to  love  the  best,  to  be  carried  by 
the  contemplation  of  nature  to  a  vivid  faith  in 
the  ideal,  all  this  is  more,  a  great  deal  more, 
than  any  science  can  hope  to  be.  The  poets  and 
philosophers  who  express  this  sesthetic  experience 
and  stimulate  the  same  function  in  us  by  their 
example,  do  a  greater  service  to  mankind  and 
deserve  higher  honour  than  the  discoverers  of 
historical  truth.  Eeflection  is  indeed  a  part  of 
life,  but  the  last  part.  Its  specific  value  consists 
in  the  satisfaction  of  curiosity,  in  the  smoothing 
out  and  explanation  of  things:  but  the  greatest 
pleasure  which  we  actually  get  from  reflection  is 
borrowed  from  the  experience  on  which  we  re- 
flect. We  do  not  often  indulge  in  retrospect  for 
the  sake  of  a  scientific  knowledge  of  human  life, 
but  rather  to  revive  the  memories  of  what  once 
was  dear.  And  I  should  have  little  hope  of  inter- 
esting the  reader  in  the  present  analyses,  did  1 
not  rely  on  the  attractions  of  a  subject  associated 
with  so  many  of  his  pleasures. 

But    the    recognition     of    the    superiority    of 


12  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

aesthetics  m  experience  to  aesthetics  in  theory- 
ought  not  to  make  us  accept  as  an  explanation 
of  aesthetic  feeling  what  is  in  truth  only  an 
expression  of  it.  When  Plato  tells  us  of  the 
eternal  ideas  in  conformity  to  which  all  excellence 
consists,  he  is  making  himself  the  spokesman  of 
the  moral  consciousness.  Our  conscience  and  taste 
establish  these  ideals;  to  make  a  judgment  is 
virtually  to  establish  an  ideal,  and  all  ideals  are 
absolute  and  eternal  for  the  judgment  that  in- 
volves them,  because  in  finding  and  declaring  a 
thing  good  or  beautiful,  our  sentence  is  cate- 
gorical, and  the  standard  evoked  by  our  judgment 
is  for  that  case  intrinsic  and  ultimate.  But  at 
the  next  moment,  when  the  mind  is  on  another 
footing,  a  new  ideal  is  evoked,  no  less  absolute 
for  the  present  judgment  than  the  old  ideal  was 
for  the  previous  one.  If  we  are  then  expressing 
our  feeling  and  confessing  what  happens  to  us 
when  we  judge,  we  shall  be  quite  right  in  saying 
that  we  have  always  an  absolute  ideal  before  us, 
and  that  value  lies  in  conformity  with  that  ideal. 
So,  also,  if  we  try  to  define  that  ideal,  we  shall 
hardly  be  able  to  say  of  it  anything  less  noble 
and  more  definite  than  that  it  is  the  embodiment 
of  ah  infinite  good.  For  it  is  that  incommuni- 
cable  and   illusive  excellence   that   haunts  every 

beautiful  thing,  and 

like  a  star 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal  are. 

For  the  expression  of  this  experience  we  should 
go  to  the  poets,  to  the  more  inspired  critics,  and 


INTRODUCTION  13 

best  of  all  to  the  immortal  parables  of  Plato. 
But  if  what  we  desire  is  to  increase  our  knowl- 
edge rather  than  to  cultivate  our  sensibility,  we 
should  do  well  to  close  all  those  delightful  books ; 
for  we  shall  not  find  any  instruction  there  upon 
the  questions  which  most  press  upon  us ;  namely, 
how  an  ideal  is  formed  in  the  mind,  how  a  given 
object  is  compared  with  it,  what  is  the  common 
element  in  all  beautiful  things,  and  what  the 
substance  of  the  absolute  ideal  in  which  all  ideals 
tend  to  be  lost;  and,  finally,  how  we  come  to  be 
sensitive  to  beauty  at  all,  or  to  value  it.  These 
questions  must  be  capable  of  answers,  if  any 
science  of  human  nature  is  really  possible.  —  So 
far,  then,  are  we  from  ignoring  the  insight  of  the 
Platonists,  that  we  hox3e  to  explain  it,  and  in  a 
sense  to  justify  it,  by  showing  that  it  is  the 
natural  and  sometimes  the  supreme  expression  of 
the  common  principles  of  our  nature. 


PART  I 

THE  NATUEE   OE  BEAUTY 

The  philosophy       §  1,   It  would  be  easy  to  find  a  defini- 

0/  beauty  Is  .  -,        i  -,      •         • 

a  theory  of       tioii  01  beautj  that  should  give  m  a  few 
values.  words  a  telling  paraphrase  of  the  v/ord. 

We  know  on  excellent  authority  that  beauty  is 
truth,  that  it  is  the  expression  of  the  ideal,  the 
symbol  of  divine  perfection,  and  the  sensible  mani- 
festation of  the  good.  A  litany  of  these  titles  of 
honour  might  easily  be  compiled,  and  repeated  in 
praise  of  our  divinity.  Such  phrases  stimulate 
thought  and  give  us  a  momentary  pleasure,  but 
they  hardly  bring  any  permanent  enlightenment. 
A  definition  that  should  really  define  must  be  noth- 
ing less  than  the  exposition  of  the  origin,  place,  and 
elements  of  beauty  as  an  object  of  human  experi- 
ence. We  must  learn  from  it,  as  far  as  possible, 
why,  when,  and  how  beauty  appears,  what  condi- 
tions an  object  must  fulfil  to  be  beautiful,  vvdiat 
elements  of  our  nature  make  us  sensible  of  beauty, 
and  what  the  relation  is  between  the  constitution 
of  the  object  and  the  excitement  of  our  suscepti- 
bility. Nothing  less  will  really  define  beauty  or 
make  us  understand  what  aesthetic  appreciation  is. 
The  definition  of  beauty  in  this  sense  will  be  the 
14 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  15 

task  of  this  whole  book,  a  task  that  can  be  only 
very  iniperfectl}^  accomplished  within  its  limits. 

The  historical  titles  of  our  subject  may  give  us 
a  hint  towards  the  beginning  of  such  a  definition. 
Many  writers  of  the  last  century  called  the  phi- 
losophy of  beauty  Criticism,  and  the  word  is  still 
retained  as  the  title  for  the  reasoned  appreciation 
of  works  of  art.  We  could  hardly  speak,  however, 
of  delight  in  nature  as  criticism.  A  sunset  is  not 
criticised;  it  is  felt  and  enjoyed.  The  word  "criti- 
cism," used  on  such  an  occasion,  would  emphasize 
too  much  the  element  of  deliberate  judgment  and 
of  comparison  with  standards.  Beauty,  although 
often  so  described,  is  seldom  so  perceived,  and  all 
the  greatest  excellences  of  nature  and  art  are  so 
far  from  being  approved  of  by  a  rule  that  they 
themselves  furnish  the  standard  and  ideal  by  which 
critics  measure  inferior  effects. 

This  age  of  science  and  of  nomenclature  has  ac- 
■  cordingly  adopted  a  more  learned  word,  ^'Esthetics, 
that  is,  the  theory  of  perception  or  of  susceptibility. 
If  criticism  is  too  narrow  a  word,  pointing  exclu- 
sively to  our  more  artificial  judgments,  aesthetics 
seems  to  be  too  broad  and  to  include  within  its 
sphere  all  pleasures  and  pains,  if  not  all  percep- 
tions whatsoever.  Kant  used  it,  as  we  know,  for 
his  theory  of  time  and  space  as  forms  of  all  per- 
ception ;  and  it  has  at  times  been  narrowed  into  an 
equivalent  for  the  philosophy  of  art. 

If  we  combine,  however,  the  etymological  mean- 
ing of  criticism  with  that  of  aesthetics,  we  shall 
unite   two    essential   qualities   of    the    theory   of 


16  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

beauty.  Criticism  implies  judgment,  and  aesthet- 
ics perception.  To  get  the  common  ground,  that 
of  perceptions  which  are  critical,  or  judgments 
which  are  perceptions,  we  must  widen  our  notion 
of  deliberate  criticism  so  as  to  include  those  judg- 
ments of  value  which  are  instinctive  and  immediate, 
that  is,  to  include  pleasures  and  pains ;  and  at  the 
same  time  we  must  narrow  our  notion  of  aesthetics 
so  as  to  exclude  all  perceptions  which  are  not  appre- 
ciations, which  do  not  find  a  value  in  their  objects. 
We  thus  reach  the  sphere  of  critical  or  ap]3reciative 
perception,  which  is,  roughly  speaking,  what  we 
mean  to  deal  with.  And  retaining  the  word  "  aes- 
thetics," which  is  now  current,  we  may  therefore 
say  that  aesthetics  is  concerned  with  the  percep- 
tion of  values.  The  meaning  and  conditions  of 
value  is,  then,  what  we  must  first  consider. 

Since  the  days  of  Descartes  it  has  been  a  con- 
ception familiar  to  philosophers  that  every  visible 
event  in  nature  might  be  explained  by  previous 
visible  events,  and  that  all  the  motions,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  tongue  in  speech,  or  of  the  hand  in 
painting,  might  have  merely  physical  causes.  If 
consciousness  is  thus  accessory  to  life  and  not 
essential  to  it,  the  race  of  man  might  have  existed 
upon  the  earth  and  acquired  all  the  arts  necessary 
for  its  subsistence  without  possessing  a  single  sen- 
sation, idea,  or  emotion.  Natural  selection  might 
have  secured  the  survival  of  those  automata  which 
made  useful  reactions  upon  their  environment.  An 
instinct  of  self-preservation  would  have  been  de- 
veloped, dangers  would  have  been  shunned  with- 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  17 

out  being  feared,   and  injuries   revenged  without 
being  felt. 

In  such  a  world  there  might  have  come  to  be 
the  most  i^erfect  organization.  There  would  have 
been  what  we  should  call  the  expression  of  the 
deepest  interests  and  the  apparent  pursuit  of  con- 
ceived goods.  For  there  would  have  been  spon- 
taneous and  ingrained  tendencies  to  avoid  certain 
contingencies  and  to  produce  others;  all  the 
dumb  show  and  evidence  of  thinking  would  have 
been  patent  to  the  observer.  Yet  there  Avould 
surely  have  been  no  thinking,  no  expectation,  and 
no  conscious  achievement  in  the  whole  process. 

The  onlooker  might  have  feigned  ends  and  objects 
of  forethought,  as  we  do  in  the  case  of  the  water 
that  seeks  its  own  level,  or  in  that  of  the  vacuum 
which  nature  abhors.  But  the  particles  of  matter 
would  have  remained  unconscious  of  their  colloca- 
tion, and  all  nature  would  have  been  insensible  of 
their  changing  arrangement.  We  only,  the  pos- 
sible spectators  of  that  process,  by  virtue  of  our 
own  interests  and  habits,  could  see  any  progress 
or  culmination  in  it.  AVe  should  see  culmination 
where  the  result  attained  satisfied  our  practical 
or  aesthetic  demands,  and  progress  wherever  such 
a  satisfaction  was  approached.  But  apart  from 
ourselves,  and  our  human  bias,  we  can  see  in 
such  a  mechanical  world  no  element  of  value 
whatever.  In  removing  consciousness,  we  have 
removed  the  possibility  of  worth. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  the  absence  of  all  con- 
sciousness that  value  would  be  removed  from  the 


18  THE   SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

world;  by  a  less  violent  abstraction  from  the  total- 
ity of  human  experience,  we  might  conceive  beings 
of  a  purely  intellectual  cast,  minds  in  which  the 
transformations  of  nature  were  mirrored  without 
any  emotion.  Every  event  would  then  be  noted, 
its  relations  would  be  observed,  its  recurrence 
might  even  be  expected;  but  all  this  would  hap- 
pen without  a  shadow  of  desire,  of  pleasure,  or  of 
regret.  ^N"©  event  would  be  repulsive,  no  situa- 
tion terrible.  We  might,  in  a  word,  have  a  world 
of  idea  without  a  world  of  will.  In  this  case,  as 
completely  as  if  consciousness  were  absent  alto- 
gether, all  value  and  excellence  would  be  gone. 
So  that  for  the  existence  of  good  in  any  form  it 
is  not  merely  consciousness  but  emotional  con- 
sciousness that  is  needed.  Observation  will  not 
do,  appreciation  is  required. 


Preference  §  2.   We  may  therefore  at  once  assert 

'hrathnJ.''^  this  axiom,  important  for  all  moral  plii- 
losophy  and  fatal  to  certain  stubborn 
incoherences  of  thought,  that  there  is  no  value 
apart  from  some  appreciation  of  it,  and  no  good 
apart  from  some  preference  of  it  before  its  absence 
or  its  opposite.  In  appreciation,  in  preference,  lies 
the  root  and  essence  of  all  excellence.  Or,  as 
Spinoza  clearly  expresses  it,  we  desire  nothing  be- 
cause it  is  good,  but  it  is  good  only  because  we 
desire  it. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  absence  of  an  instinctive 
reaction  we  can  still  apply  these  epithets  by  an 
appeal   to  usage.     We  may  agree  that  an  action 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  19 

is  bad,  or  a  building  good,  because  we  recognize 
in  them  a  character  which  we  have  learned  to 
designate  by  that  adjective;  but  unless  there  is 
in  us  some  trace  of  passionate  reprobation  or  of 
sensible  delight,  there  is  no  moral  or  aesthetic 
judgment.  It  is  all  a  question  of  propriety  of 
speech,  and  of  the  empty  titles  of  things.  The 
verbal  and  mechanical  proposition,  that  passes  for 
judgment  of  worth,  is  the  great  cloak  of  inepti- 
tude in  these  matters.  Insensibility  is  very  quick 
in  the  conventional  use  of  words.  If  we  appealed 
more  often  to  actual  feeling,  our  judgments  would 
be  more  diverse,  but  they  would  be  more  legiti- 
mate and  instructive.  Verbal  judgments  are  often 
useful  instruments  of  thought,  but  it  is  not  by 
them  that  worth  can  ultimately  be  determined. 

Values  spring  from  the  immediate  and  inex- 
plicable reaction  of  vital  impulse,  and  from  the 
irrational  part  of  our  nature.  The  rational  part 
is  by  its  essence  relative;  it  leads  us  from  data 
to  conclusions,  or  from  parts  to  wholes;  it  never 
furnishes  the  data  with  which  it  works.  If  any 
preference  or  precept  were  declared  to  be  ultimate 
and  primitive,  it  would  thereby  be  declared  to  be 
irrational,  since  mediation,  inference,  and  syn- 
thesis are  the  essence  of  rationality.  The  ideal 
of  rationality  is  itself  as  arbitrary,  as  much  de- 
pendent on  the  needs  of  a  finite  organization,  as 
any  other  ideal.  Only  as  ultimately  securing  tran- 
quillity of  mind,  which  the  philosopher  instinc- 
tively pursues,  has  it  for  him  any  necessity.  In 
spite  of  the  verbal  propriety  of  saying  that  reason 


20  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

demands  rationality,  what  really  demands  ration- 
ality, wliat  makes  it  a  good  and  indispensable 
thing  and  gives  it  all  its  authority,  is  not  its 
own  nature,  but  our  need  of  it  both  in  safe  and 
economical  action  and  in  the  pleasures  of  com- 
prehension. 

It  is  evident  that  beauty  is  a  species  of  value, 
and  what  we  have  said  of  value  in  general  applies 
to  this  particular  kind.  A  first  approach  to  a 
definition  of  beauty  has  therefore  been  made  by 
the  exclusion  of  all  intellectual  judgments,  all 
judgments  of  matter  of  fact  or  of  relation.  To 
substitute  judgments  of  fact  for  judgments  of 
value,  is  a  sign  of  a  pedantic  and  borrowed  criti- 
cism. If  we  approach  a  work  of  art  or  nature 
scientifically,  for  the  sake  of  its  historical  con- 
nexions or  proper  classification,  we  do  not  ap- 
proach it  aesthetically.  The  discovery  of  its  date 
or  of  its  author  may  be  otherwise  interesting;  it 
only  rem^otely  affects  our  aesthetic  appreciation 
by  adding  to  the  direct  effect  certain  associations. 
If  the  direct  effect  were  absent,  and  the  object 
in  itself  uninteresting,  the  circumstances  would 
be  immaterial.  Moliere's  Misanthrope  says  to  the 
court  poet  who  commends  his  sonnet  as  written 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 

Voyons,  monsieur,  le  temps  ne  fait  rien  h  I'affaire, 

and  so  we  might  say  to  the  critic  that  sinks  into 
the  archaeologist,  show  us  the  work,  and  let  tlie 
date  alone. 

In  an  opposite  direction  the  same  substitution 


THE  NATURE   OF  BEAUTY  21 

of  facts  for  values  makes  its  appearance,  when- 
ever the  reproduction  of  fact  is  made  the  sole 
standard  of  artistic  excellence.  Many  half-trained 
observers  condemn  the  work  of  some  naive  or 
fanciful  masters  with  a  sneer,  because,  as  they 
truly  say,  it  is  out  of  drawing.  The  implica- 
tion is  that  to  be  correctly  copied  from  a  model 
is  the  prerequisite  of  all  beauty.  Correctness  is, 
indeed,  an  element  of  effect  and  one  which,  in 
respect  to  familiar  objects,  is  almost  indispen- 
sable, because  its  absence  would  cause  a  disap- 
pointment and  dissatisfaction  incompatible  with 
enjoyment.  We  learn  to  value  truth  more  and 
more  as  our  love  and  knowledge  of  nature  in- 
crease. But  fidelity  is  a  merit  only  because  it  is 
in  this  way  a  factor  in  our  pleasure.  It  stands  on 
a  level  with  all  other  ingredients  of  effect.  When 
a  man  raises  it  to  a  solitary  pre-eminence  and 
becomes  incapable  of  appreciating  anything  else, 
he  betrays  the  decay  of  eesthetic  capacity.  The 
scientific  habit  in  him  inhibits  the  artistic. 

That  facts  have  a  value  of  their  own,  at  once 
complicates  and  explains  this  question.  We  are 
naturally  pleased  by  every  perception,  and  recog- 
nition and  surprise  are  particularly  acute  sensa- 
tions. AVhen  we  see  a  striking  truth  in  any 
imitation,  we  are  therefore  delighted,  and  this 
kind  of  pleasure  is  very  legitimate,  and  enters 
into  the  best  effects  of  all  the  representative 
arts.  Truth  and  realism  are  therefore  eestheti- 
cally  good,  but  they  are  not  all-sufficient,  since 
the   representation   of   everything    is    not  equally 


22  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

pleasing  and  effective.  The  fact  that  resemblance 
is  a  source  of  satisfaction,  justifies  the  critic  in 
demanding  it,  while  the  aesthetic  insufficiency  of 
such  veracity  shows  the  different  value  of  truth 
in  science  and  in  art.  Science  is  the  response 
to  the  demand  for  information,  and  in  it  we 
ask  for  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth.  Art  is  the  response  to  the  demand  for 
entertainment,  for  the  stimulation  of  our  senses 
and  imagination,  and  truth  enters  into  it  only  as 
it  subserves  these  ends. 

Even  the  scientific  value  of  truth  is  not,  how- 
ever, ultimate  or  absolute.  It  rests  partly  on 
practical,  partly  on  aesthetic  interests.  As  our 
ideas  are  gradually  brought  into  conformity  with 
the  facts  by  the  painful  process  of  selection,  —  for 
intuition  runs  equally  into  truth  and  into  error, 
and  can  settle  nothing  if  not  controlled  by  expe- 
rience, —  we  gain  vastly  in  our  command  over  our 
environment.  This  is  the  fundamental  value  of 
natural  science,  and  the  fruit  it  is  yielding  in 
our  day.  We  have  no  better  vision  of  nature  and 
life  than  some  of  our  predecessors,  but  we  have 
greater  material  resources.  To  know  the  truth 
about  the  composition  and  history  of  things  is 
good  for  this  reason.  It  is  also  good  because  of 
the  enlarged  horizon  it  gives  us,  because  the 
spectacle  of  nature  is  a  marvellous  and  fascinat- 
ing one,  full  of  a  serious  sadness  and  large  peace, 
which  gives  us  back  our  birthright  as  children 
of  the  planet  and  naturalizes  us  upon  the  earth. 
This  is  the  poetic  value  of  the  scientific  Weltan- 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  23 

schaiiung.  From  these  two  benefits,  the  practical 
and  the  imaginative,  all  the  value  of  truth  is 
derived. 

Esthetic  and  moral  judgments  are  accordingly 
to  be  classed  together  in  contrast  to  judgments 
intellectual;  they  are  both  judgments  of  value, 
while  intellectual  judgments  are  judgments  of 
fact.  If  the  latter  have  any  value,  it  is  only 
derivative,  and  our  whole  intellectual  life  has 
its  only  justification  in  its  connexion  with  our 
pleasures  and  pains. 

§  3.  The  relation  between  aesthetic  Contrast  be- 
and  moral  judgments,  between  the  [ZZ^tZl'o 
spheres  of  the  beautiful  and  the  good,  is  values. 
close,  but  the  distinction  between  them  is  impor- 
tant. One  factor  of  this  distinction  is  that  while 
aesthetic  judgments  are  mainly  positive,  that  is, 
perceptions  of  good,  moral  judgments  are  mainly 
and  fundamentally  negative,  or  perceptions  of  evil. 
Another  factor  of  the  distinction  is  that  whereas, 
in  the  perception  of  beauty,  our  judgment  is  neces- 
sarily intrinsic  and  based  on  the  character  of  the 
immediate  experience,  and  never  consciously  on 
the  idea  of  an  eventual  utility  in  the  object, 
judgments  about  moral  worth,  on  the  contrary, 
are  always  based,  when  they  are  positive,  upon 
the  consciousness  of  benefits  probably  involved. 
Both  these  distinctions  need  some  elucidation. 

Hedonistic  ethics  have  always  had  to  struggle 
against  the  moral  sense  of  mankind.  Earnest 
m.inds,  that  feel  the  weight  and  dignity  of  life, 


24  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

rebel  against  the  assertion  that  the  aim  of  right 
conduct  is  enjoyment.  Pleasure  usually  appears 
to  them  as  a  temptation,  and  they  sometimes  go 
so  far  as  to  make  avoidance  of  it  a  virtue.  The 
truth  is  that  morality  is  not  mainly  concerned 
with  the  attainment  of  pleasure ;  it  is  rather  con- 
cerned, in  all  its  deeper  and  more  authoritative 
maxims,  with  the  prevention  of  suffering.  There 
is  something  artificial  in  the  deliberate  pursuit  of 
pleasure;  there  is  something  absurd  in  the  obli- 
gation to  enjoy  oneself.  We  feel  no  duty  in  that 
direction;  Ave  take  to  enjoyment  naturally  enough 
after  the  work  of  life  is  done,  and  the  freedom 
and  spontaneity  of  our  pleasures  is  what  is  most 
essential  to  them. 

The  sad  business  of  life  is  rather  to  escape  cer- 
tain dreadful  evils  to  which  our  nature  exposes  us, 
—  death,  hunger,  disease,  weariness,  isolation,  and 
contempt.  By  the  awful  authority  of  these  things, 
which  stand  like  spectres  behind  every  moral  in- 
junction, conscience  in  reality  speaks,  and  a  mind 
which  they  have  duly  impressed  cannot  but  feel, 
by  contrast,  the  hopeless  triviality  of  the  search  for 
pleasure.  It  cannot  but  feel  that  a  life  abandoned 
to  amusement  and  to  changing  impulses  must  run 
unawares  into  fatal  dangers.  The  moment,  how- 
ever, that  society  emerges  from  the  early  pressure 
of  the  environment  and  is  tolerably  secure  against 
primary  evils,  morality  grows  lax.  The  forms  that 
life  will  farther  assume  are  not  to  be  imposed  by 
moral  authority,  but  are  determined  by  the  genius 
of  the  race,  the  opportunities  of  the  moment,  and 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  25 

the  tastes  and  resources  of  individual  minds.  The 
reign  of  duty  gives  place  to  the  reign  of  freedom, 
and  the  law  and  the  covenant  to  the  dispensation 
of  grace. 

The  appreciation  of  beauty  and  its  embodiment 
in  the  arts  are  activities  which  belong  to  our  holi- 
day life,  when  we  are  redeemed  for  the  moment 
from  the  shadow  of  evil  and  the  slavery  to  fear, 
and  are  following  the  bent  of  our  nature  where  it 
chooses  to  lead  us.  The  values,  then,  with  which 
we  here  deal  are  positive;  they  were  negative  in 
the  sphere  of  morality.  The  ugly  is  hardly  an 
exception,  because  it  is  not  the  cause  of  any  real 
pain.  In  itself  it  is  rather  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment. If  its  suggestions  are  vitally  repulsive,  its 
presence  becomes  a  real  evil  towards  which  we 
assume  a  practical  and  moral  attitude.  And,  cor- 
respondingly, the  pleasant  is  never,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  object  of  a  truly  moral  injunction. 

§  4.  We  have  here,  then,  an  impor-  Work  and 
tant  element  of  the  distinction  between  '''°^' 
sesthetic  and  moral  values.  It  is  the  same  that 
has  been  pointed  to  in  the  famous  contrast  between 
work  and  play.  These  terms  may  be  used  in  differ- 
ent senses  and  their  importance  in  moral  classifi- 
cation differs  with  the  meaning  attached  to  them. 
We  may  call  everything  play  which  is  useless 
activity,  exercise  that  springs  from  the  physio- 
logical impulse  to  discharge  the  energy  which 
the  exigencies  of  life  have  not  called  out.  Work 
will  then  be  all  action  that  is  necessary  or  useful 


26  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

for  life.  Evidently  if  work  and  play  are  thus 
objectively  distinguished  as  useful  and  useless 
action,  work  is  a  eulogistic  term  and  play  a  dis- 
paraging one.  It  would  be  better  for  us  that  all 
our  energy  should  be  turned  to  account,  that  none 
of  it  should  be  wasted  in  aimless  motion.  Play, 
in  this  sense,  is  a  sign  of  imperfect  adaptation. 
It  is  proper  to  childhood,  when  the  body  and 
mind  are  not  yet  fit  to  cope  with  the  environ- 
ment, but  it  is  unseemly  in  manhood  and  pitiable 
in  old  age,  because  it  marks  an  atrophy  of  human 
nature,  and  a  failure  to  take  hold  of  the  oppor- 
tunities of  life. 

Play  is  thus  essentially  frivolous.  Some  per- 
sons, understanding  the  term  in  this  sense,  have 
felt  an  aversion,  which  every  liberal  mind  will 
share,  to  classing  social  pleasures,  art,  and  reli- 
gion under  the  head  of  play,  and  by  that  epithet 
condemning  them,  as  a  certain  school  seems  to 
do,  to  gradual  extinction  as  the  race  approaches 
maturity.  But  if  all  the  useless  ornaments  of 
our  life  are  to  be  cut  off  in  the  process  of  adap- 
tation, evolution  would  impoverish  instead  of 
enriching  our  nature.  Perhaps  that  is  the  ten- 
dency of  evolution,  and  our  barbarous  ancestors 
amid  their  toils  and  wars,  with  their  flaming 
passions  and  mythologies,  lived  better  lives  than 
are  reserved  to  our  well-adapted  descendants. 

We  may  be  allowed  to  hope,  however,  that  some 
imagination  may  survive  parasitically  even  in 
the  most  serviceable  brain.  Whatever  course  his- 
tory may  take, —  and  we  are  not  here  concerned 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  27 

with  prophecy, —  the  question  of  what  is  desir- 
able is  not  affected.  To  condemn  spontaneous 
and  delightful  occupations  because  they  are  use- 
less for  self-preservation  shows  an  uncritical  priz- 
ing of  life  irrespective  of  its  content.  For  such 
a  system  the  worthiest  function  of  the  universe 
should  be  to  establish  perpetual  motion.  Use- 
lessness  is  a  fatal  accusation  to  bring  against 
any  act  which  is  done  for  its  presumed  utility, 
but  those  which  are  done  for  their  own  sake  are 
their  own  justification. 

At  the  same  time  there  is  an  undeniable  pro- 
priety in  calling  all  the  liberal  and  imaginative 
activities  of  man  play,  because  they  are  spontane- 
ous, and  not  carried  on  under  pressure  of  external 
necessity  or  danger.  Their  utility  for  self-pres- 
ervation may  be  very  indirect  and  accidental, 
but  they  are  not  worthless  for  that  reason.  On 
the  contrary,  we  may  measure  the  degree  of 
happiness  and  civilization  which  any  race  has 
attained  by  the  proportion  of  its  energy  which 
is  devoted  to  free  and  generous  pursuits,  to  the 
adornment  of  life  and  the  culture  of  the  imagi- 
nation. For  it  is  in  the  spontaneous  play  of  his 
faculties  that  man  finds  himself  and  his  happi- 
ness. Slavery  is  the  most  degrading  condition 
of  which  he  is  capable,  and  he  is  as  often  a 
slave  to  the  niggardness  of  the  earth  and  the 
inclemency  of  heaven,  as  to  a  master  or  an  insti- 
tution. He  is  a  slave  when  all  his  energy  is 
spent  in  avoiding  suffering  and  death,  when  all 
his    action    is    imposed    from    without,     and    no 


28  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

breath    or   strength    is    left   him   for   free   enjoy- 
ment. 

Work  and  play  here  take  on  a  different  mean- 
ing, and  become  equivalent  to  servitude  and  free- 
dom. The  change  consists  in  the  subjective  point 
of  view  from  which  the  distinction  is  now  made. 
We  no  longer  mean  by  work  all  that  is  done 
usefully,  but  only  what  is  done  unwillingly  and 
by  the  spur  of  necessity.  By  play  we  are  des- 
ignating, no  longer  what  is  done  fruitlessly,  but 
whatever  is  done  spontaneously  and  for  its  own 
sake,  whether  it  have  or  not  an  ulterior  utility. 
Play,  in  this  sense,  may  be  our  most  useful  occu- 
pation. So  far  would  a  gradual  adaptation  to  the 
environment  be  from  making  this  play  obsolete, 
that  it  would  tend  to  abolish  work,  and  to  make 
play  universal.  For  with  the  elimination  of  all 
the  conflicts  and  errors  of  instinct,  the  race  would 
do  spontaneously  whatever  conduced  to  its  welfare 
and  we  should  live  safely  and  prosperously  with- 
out external  stimulus  or  restraint. 

Ail  values  are        §  5.    In    this    sccoud   and   subjective 

in  one  sense  .  -■  ^       •        i^  i  • 

cBsthetic.  sense,   then,    work   is   the   disparaging 

term  and  play  the  eulogistic  one.  All 
who  feel  the  dignity  and  importance  of  the  things 
of  the  imagination,  need  not  hesitate  to  adopt  the 
classification  which  designates  them  as  play.  We 
point  out  thereby,  not  that  they  have  no  value,  but 
that  their  value  is  intrinsic,  that  in  them  is  one  of 
the  sources  of  all  worth.  Evidently  all  values 
must  be  ultimately  intrinsic.     The  useful  is  good 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  29 

because  of  the  excellence  of  its  consequences ;  but 
these  must  somewhere  cease  to  be  merely  useful 
in  their  turn,  or  only  excellent  as  means;  some- 
where we  must  reach  the  good  that  is  good  in 
itself  and  for  its  own  sake,  else  the  whole  process 
is  futile,  and  the  utility  of  our  first  object  illusory. 
We  here  reach  the  second  factor  in  our  distinction, 
between  aesthetic  and  moral  values,  which  regards 
their  immediacy. 

If  we  attempt  to  remove  from  life  all  its  evils, 
as  the  popular  imagination  has  done  at  times,  we 
shall  find  little  but  aesthetic  pleasures  remaining 
to  constitute  unalloyed  happiness.  The  satisfac- 
tion of  the  passions  and  the  appetites,  in  which 
we  chiefly  place  earthly  happiness,  themselves 
take  on  an  aesthetic  tinge  when  we  remove  ideally 
the  possibility  of  loss  or  variation.  What  could 
the  Olympians  honour  in  one  another  or  the  sera- 
phim worship  in  God  except  the  embodiment  of 
eternal  attributes,  of  essences  which,  like  beauty, 
make  us  happy  only  in  contemplation?  The  glory 
of  heaven  could  not  be  otherwise  symbolized  than 
by  light  and  music.  Even  the  knowledge  of  truth, 
which  the  most  sober  theologians  made  the  essence 
of  the  beatific  vision,  is  an  aesthetic  delight;  for 
when  the  truth  has  no  further  practical  utility,  it 
becomes  a  landscape.  The  delight  of  it  is  imagi- 
native and  the  value  of  it  aesthetic. 

This  reduction  of  all  values  to  immediate  ap- 
preciations, to  sensuous  or  vital  activities,  is  so 
inevitable  that  it  has  struck  even  the  minds  most 
courageously  rationalistic.     Only  for  them,  instead 


30  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  leading  to  the  liberation  of  aesthetic  goods  from 
practical  entanglements  and  their  establishment  as 
the  only  pure  and  positive  values  in  life,  this 
analysis  has  led  rather  to  the  denial  of  all  pure  and 
positive  goods  altogether.  Such  thinkers  naturally 
assume  that  moral  values  are  intrinsic  and  supreme ; 
and  since  these  moral  values  would  not  arise  but  for 
the  existence  or  imminence  of  physical  evils,  they 
embrace  the  paradox  that  without  evil  no  good 
whatever  is  conceivable. 

The  harsh  requirements  of  apologetics  have  no 
doubt  helped  them  to  this  position,  from  which 
one  breath  of  spring  or  the  sight  of  one  well- 
begotten  creature  should  be  enough  to  dislodge 
them.  Their  ethical  temper  and  the  fetters  of 
their  imagination  forbid  them  to  reconsider  their 
original  assumption  and  to  conceive  that  morality 
is  a  means  and  not  an  end;  that  it  is  the  price 
of  human  non-adaptation,  and  the  consequence  of 
the  original  sin  of  unfitness.  It  is  the  compres- 
sion of  human  conduct  within  the  narrow  limits 
of  the  safe  and  possible.  Kemove  danger,  remove 
pain,  remove  the  occasion  of  pity,  and  the  need  of 
morality  is  gone.  To  say  "  thou  shalt  not "  would 
then  be  an  impertinence. 

But  this  elimination  of  precept  would  not  be  a 
cessation  of  life.  The  senses  would  still  be  open, 
the  instincts  would  still  operate,  and  lead  all  creo.t- 
ures  to  the  haunts  and  occupations  that  befitted 
them.  The  variety  of  nature  and  the  infinity  of 
art,  with  the  companionship  of  our  fellows,  would 
fill  the  leisure  of  tliat  ideal  existence.     These  are 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  31 

the  elements  of  our  positive  happiness,  the  things 
which,  amid  a  thousand  vexations  and  vanities, 
make  the  clear  profit  of  living. 

§  6.  Not  only  are  the  various  satis-  ^^ii^eUc  con- 

^  ^  J  secmtion  of 

factions  which  morals  are  meant  to  genemi  prin- 
secure  aesthetic  in  the  last  analysis,  '"^'^** 
but  when  the  conscience  is  formed,  and  right 
principles  acquire  an  immediate  authority,  our 
attitude  to  these  principles  becomes  sesthetic 
also.  Honour,  truthfulness,  and  cleanliness  are 
obvious  examples.  When  the  absence  of  these 
virtues  causes  an  instinctive  disgust,  as  it  does 
in  well-bred  people,  the  reaction  is  essentially 
jBsthetic,  because  it  is  not  based  on  reflection  and 
benevoleuce,  but  on  constitutional  sensitiveness. 
This  esthetic  sensitiveness  is,  however,  properly 
enough  called  moral,  because  it  is  the  effect  of 
conscientious  training  and  is  more  powerful  for 
good  in  society  than  laborious  virtue,  because 
it  is  much  more  constant  and  catching.  It  is 
KaXoKdya^ta,  the  aesthetic  demand  fcr  the  morally 
good,  and  perhaps  the  finest  flower  of  human 
nature. 

But  this  tendency  of  representative  principles 
to  become  independent  powers  and  acquire  in- 
trinsic value  is  sometimes  mischievous.  It  is  the 
foundation  of  the  conflicts  betv^^e8n  sentiment  and 
justice,  between  intuitive  and  utilitarian  morals. 
Every  human  reform  is  the  reassertion  of  the  pri- 
mary interests  of  man  against  tlie  authority  of 
general  principles  which  have  ceased  to  represent 


32  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

tliose  interests  fairly,  but  which  still  obtain  the 
idolatrous  veneration  of  mankind.  Nor  are  chiv- 
alry and  religion  alone  liable  to  fall  into  this  moral 
superstition.  It  arises  wherever  an  abstract  good 
is  substituted  for  its  concrete  equivalent.  The 
miser's  fallacy  is  the  typical  case,  and  something 
very  like  it  is  the  ethical  principle  of  half  our 
respectable  population.  To  the  exercise  of  certain 
useful  habits  men  come  to  sacrifice  the  advantage 
which  was  the  original  basis  and  justification  of 
those  habits.  Minute  knowledge  is  pursued  at 
the  expense  of  largeness  of  mind,  and  riches  at 
the  expense  of  comfort  and  freedom. 

This  error  is  all  the  more  specious  when  the 
derived  aim  has  in  itself  some  sesthetic  charm, 
such  as  belongs  to  the  Stoic  idea  of  playing  one's 
part  in  a  vast  drama  of  things,  irrespective  of  any 
advantage  thereby  accruing  to  any  one;  some- 
what as  the  miser's  passion  is  rendered  a  little 
normal  when  his  eye  is  fascinated  not  merely 
by  the  figures  of  a  bank  account,  but  by  the 
glitter  of  the  yellow  gold.  And  the  vanity  of 
playing  a  tragic  part  and  the  glory  of  conscious 
self-sacrifice  have  the  same  immediate  fascina- 
tion. Many  irrational  maxims  thus  acquire  a 
kind  of  nobility.  An  object  is  chosen  as  the 
highest  good  which  has  not  only  a  certain  repre- 
sentative value,  but  also  an  intrinsic  one, — which 
is  not  merely  a  method  for  the  realization  of 
other  values,  but  a  value  in  its  own  realization. 

Obedience  to  God  is  for  the  Christian,  as  con- 
formity  to   the   laws   of   nature    or  reason   is    for 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  33 

the  Stoic,  an  attitude  whicli  has  a  certain  emo- 
tional and  passionate  worth,  apart  from  its 
original  justification  by  maxims  of  utility.  This 
emotional  and  passionate  force  is  the  essence  of 
fanaticism,  it  makes  imperatives  categorical,  and 
gives  them  absolute  sway  over  the  conscience  in 
spite  of  their  one-sidedness  and  their  injustice 
to  the  manifold  demands  of  human  nature. 

Obedience  to  God  or  reason  can  originally 
recommend  itself  to  a  man  only  as  the  surest 
and  ultimately  least  painful  way  of  balancing 
his  aims  and  synthesizing  his  desires.  So  neces- 
sary is  this  sanction  even  to  the  most  impetuous 
natures,  that  no  martyr  would  go  to  the  stake  if 
he  did  not  believe  that  the  powers  of  nature,  in 
the  day  of  judgment,  would  be  on  his  side.  But 
the  human  mind  is  a  turbulent  commonwealth, 
and  the  laws  that  make  for  the  greatest  good 
cannot  be  established  in  it  without  some  partial 
sacrifice,  without  the  suppression  of  many  par- 
ticular impulses.  Hence  the  voice  of  reason  or 
the  command  of  God,  which  makes  for  the  maxi- 
mum ultimate  satisfaction,  finds  itself  opposed 
by  sundry  scattered  and  refractory  forces,  which 
are  henceforth  denominated  bad.  The  unreflec- 
tive  conscience,  forgetting  the  vicarious  source 
of  its  own  excellence,  then  assumes  a  solemn 
and  incomprehensible  immediacy,  as  if  its  decrees 
were  absolute  and  intrinsically  authoritative,  not 
of  to-day  or  yesterday,  and  no  one  could  tell 
whence  they  had  arisen.  Instinct  can  all  the 
more   easily   produce   this   mystification  when   it 


34  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

calls  forth  an  imaginative  activity  full  of  interest 
and  eager  passion.  This  effect  is  conspicuous  in 
the  absolutist  conscience,  both  devotional  and 
rationalistic,  as  also  in  the  passion  of  love.  For 
in  all  these  a  certain  individuality,  definiteness, 
and  exclusiveness  is  given  to  the  pursued  object 
which  is  very  favourable  to  zeal,  and  the  heat 
of  passion  melts  together  the  various  processes 
of  volition  into  the  consciousness  of  one  adorable 
influence. 

However  deceptive  these  complications  may 
prove  to  men  of  action  and  eloquence,  they  ought 
not  to  impose  on  the  critic  of  human  nature. 
Evidently  what  value  general  goods  do  not  derive 
from  the  particular  satisfactions  they  stand  for, 
they  possess  in  themselves  as  ideas  pleasing  and 
powerful  over  the  imagination.  This  intrinsic 
advantage  of  certain  principles  and  methods  is 
none  the  less  real  for  being  in  a  sense  aesthetic. 
Only  a  sordid  utilitarianism  that  subtracts  the 
imagination  from  human  nature,  or  at  least  slurs 
over  its  immense  contribution  to  our  happiness, 
could  fail  to  give  these  principles  the  preference 
over  others  practically  as  good. 

If  it  could  be  shown,  for  instance,  that  monarchy 
was  as  apt,  in  a  given  case,  to  secure  the  public 
well-being  as  some  other  form  of  government,  mon- 
archy should  be  preferred,  and  would  undoubtedly 
be  established,  on  account  of  its  imaginative  and 
dramatic  superiority.  But  if,  blinded  by  this 
somewhat  ethereal  advantage,  a  party  sacrificed 
to    it    important    public    interests,    the    injustice 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  35 

would  be  manifest.  In  a  doubtful  case,  a  nation 
decides,  not  without  painful  conflicts,  how  much 
it  will  sacrifice  to  its  sentimental  needs.  The 
important  point  is  to  remember  that  the  repre- 
sentative or  practical  value  of  a  principle  is  one 
thing,  and  its  intrinsic  or  aesthetic  value  is 
another,  and  that  the  latter  can  be  justly  counted 
only  as  an  item  in  its  favour  to  be  weighed 
against  possible  external  disadvantages.  When- 
ever this  comparison  and  balancing  of  ultimate 
benefits  of  every  kind  is  angrily  dismissed  in 
favour  of  some  absolute  principle,  laid  down  in 
contempt  of  human  misery  and  happiness,  we  have 
a  personal  and  fantastic  system  of  ethics,  without 
practical  sanctions.  It  is  an  evidence  that  the 
superstitious  imagination  has  invaded  the  sober 
and  practical  domain  of  morals. 

§  7.    We    have    now    separated   with  /Esthetic  and 
some  care  intellectual  and  moral  judg-  pleasure. 
ments  from  the  sphere  of  our  subject, 
and  found  that  we  are  to  deal  only  with  percep- 
tions of  value,   and  with  these  only  when  they 
are    positive    and    immediate.      But    even    with 
these   distinctions   the    most    remarkable    charac- 
teristic of  the  sense  of  beauty  remains  undefined. 
All   pleasures  are  intrinsic   and   positive   values, 
but  all  pleasures  are  not  perceptions  of  beauty. 
Pleasure  is  indeed  the  essence  of  that  perception, 
but  there  is  evidently  in  this  particular  pleasure 
a   complication   which    is    not    present   in   others 
and  which  is  the  basis  of  the  distinction  made 


36  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

by  consciousness  and  language  between  it  and 
the  rest.  It  will  be  instructive  to  notice  the 
degrees  of  this  difference. 

The  bodily  pleasures  are  those  least  resembling 
percei)tions  of  beauty.  By  bodily  pleasures  we 
mean,  of  course,  more  than  pleasures  with  a 
bodily  seat;  for  that  class  would  include  them 
all,  as  well  as  all  forms  and  elements  of  con- 
sciousness. ^Esthetic  pleasures  have  physical 
conditions,  they  depend  on  the  activity  of  the 
eye  and  the  ear,  of  the  memory  and  the  other 
ideational  functions  of  the  brain.  But  we  do  not 
connect  those  pleasures  with  their  seats  except  in 
physiological  studies;  the  ideas  with  which  aes- 
thetic pleasures  are  associated  are  not  the  ideas 
of  their  bodily  causes.  The  pleasures  we  call 
physical,  and  regard  as  low,  on  the  contrary,  are 
those  which  call  our  attention  to  some  part  of 
our  own  body,  and  which  make  no  object  so 
conspicuous  to  us  as  the  organ  in  which  they 
arise. 

There  is  here,  then,  a  very  marked  distinc- 
tion between  physical  and  aesthetic  pleasure;  the 
organs  of  the  latter  must  be  transparent,  they 
must  not  intercept  our  attention,  but  carry  it 
directly  to  some  external  object.  The  greater 
dignity  and  range  of  aesthetic  pleasure  is  thus 
made  very  intelligible.  The  soul  is  glad,  as  it 
were,  to  forget  its  connexion  with  tlie  body  and 
to  fancy  that  it  can  travel  over  the  world  with 
the  liberty  with  which  it  changes  the  objects  of 
its    thought.      The    mind    passes    from   China   to 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  37 

Peru  without  any  conscious  change  in  the  local 
tensions  of  the  body.  This  illusion  of  disem- 
bodiment is  very  exhilarating,  while  immersion 
in  the  flesh  and  confinement  to  some  organ  gives 
a  tone  of  grossness  and  selfishness  to  our  con- 
sciousness. The  generally  meaner  associations  of 
physical  pleasures  also  help  to  explain  their  com- 
parative crudity. 

§  8.   The  distinction  between   pleas-   tiw  diffefentia 
lire  and  the  sense  of  beauty  has  some-   ^piZlurl'not 
times    been    said    to    consist    in    the   as  disinterest- 

1        ■  •    r         '  ednsss. 

unselfishness  of  aesthetic  satisfaction. 
In  other  pleasures,  it  is  said,  we  gratify  our 
senses  and  passions;  in  the  contemplation  of 
beauty  we  are  raised  above  ourselves,  the  pas- 
sions are  silenced  and  we  are  happy  in  the 
recognition  of  a  good  that  we  do  not  seek  to 
possess.  The  painter  does  not  look  at  a  spring 
of  water  with  the  eyes  of  a  thirsty  man,  nor  at 
a  beautiful  woman  with  those  of  a  satyr.  The 
difference  lies,  it  is  urged,  in  the  impersonality 
of  the  enjoyment.  But  this  distinction  is  one  of 
intensity  and  delicacy,  not  of  nature,  and  it  seems 
satisfactory  only  to  the  least  aesthetic  minds. ^ 

1  Schopenhauer,  indeed,  who  makes  much  of  it,  was  a  good 
critic,  but  his  psychology  suffered  much  from  the  pessimistic 
generalities  of  his  system.  It  concerned  him  to  show  that  the 
will  was  bad,  and,  as  he  felt  beauty  to  be  a  good  if  not  a  holy 
thing,  he  hastened  to  convince  himself  that  it  came  from  the 
suppression  of  the  will.  But  even  in  his  system  this  suppres- 
sion is  only  relative.  The  desire  of  individual  objects,  indeed, 
is  absent  in  the  perception  of  beauty,  but  there  is  still  present 


38  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

In  the  second  place,  the  supposed  disinterested- 
ness of  eesthetic  delights  is  not  very  fundamental. 
Appreciation  of  a  picture  is  not  identical  with  the 
desire  to  buy  it,  but  it  is,  or  ought  to  be,  closely 
related  and  preliminary  to  that  desire.  The 
beauties  of  nature  and  of  the  plastic  arts  are 
not  consumed  by  being  enjoyed;  they  retain  all 
the  efhcacy  to  impress  a  second  beholder.  But 
this  circumstance  is  accidental,  and  those  aesthetic 
objects  which  depend  upon  change  and  are  ex- 
hausted in  time,  as  are  all  performances,  are 
things  the  enjoyment  of  which  is  an  object  of 
rivalry  and  is  coveted  as  much  as  any  other 
pleasure.  And  even  plastic  beauties  can  often 
not  be  enjoyed  except  by  a  few,  on  account  of 
the  necessity  of  travel  or  other  difficulties  of 
access,  and  then  this  aesthetic  enjoyment  is  as 
selfishly  pursued  as  the  rest. 

The  truth  which  the  theory  is  trying  to  state 
seems  rather  to  be  that  when  we  seek  aesthetic 
pleasures  we  have  no  further  pleasure  in  mind; 
that  we  do  not  mix  up  the  satisfactions  of  vanity 
and  proprietorship  with  the  delight  of  contempla- 
tion.    This  is  true,  but  it  is  true  at  bottom  of 

that  initial  love  of  the  general  type  and  principles  of  things  which 
is  the  first  illusion  of  the  absolute,  and  drives  it  on  to  the  fatal 
experiment  of  creation.  So  that,  apart  from  Schopenhauer's 
mythology,  we  have  even  in  him  the  recoguitiou  that  beauty 
gives  satisfaction  to  some  dim  and  underlying  demand  of  our 
nature,  just  as  particular  objects  give  more  special  and  momen- 
tary pleasures  to  our  individualized  wills.  His  psychology  was, 
however,  far  too  vague  and  general  to  undertake  an  analysis  of 
those  mysterious  feelings. 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  39 

all  pursuits  and  enjoyments.  Every  real  pleasure 
is  in  one  sense  disinterested.  It  is  not  sought 
with  ulterior  motives,  and  what  fills  the  mind 
is  no  calculation,  but  the  image  of  an  object  or 
event,  suffused  with  emotion.  A  sophisticated 
consciousness  may  often  take  the  idea  of  self  as 
the  touchstone  of  its  inclinations;  but  this  self, 
for  the  gratification  and  aggrandizement  of  which 
a  man  may  live,  is  itself  only  a  complex  of 
aims  and  memories,  which  once  had  their  direct 
objects,  in  which  he  had  taken  a  spontaneous 
and  unselfish  interest.  The  gratifications  which, 
merged  together,  make  the  selfishness  are  each 
of  them  ingenuous,  and  no  more  selfish  than  the 
most  altruistic,  impersonal  emotion.  The  content 
of  selfishness  is  a  mass  of  unselfishness.  There 
is  no  reference  to  the  nominal  essence  called  one- 
self either  in  one's  appetites  or  in  one's  natural 
affections;  yet  a  man  absorbed  in  his  meat  and 
drink,  in  his  houses  and  lands,  in  his  children 
and  dogs,  is  called  selfish  because  these  interests, 
although  natural  and  instinctive  in  him,  are  not 
shared  by  others.  The  unselfish  man  is  he  whose 
nature  has  a  more  universal  direction,  whose  in- 
terests are  more  widely  diffused. 

But  as  impersonal  thoughts  are  such  only  in 
their  object,  not  in  their  subject  or  agent,  since 
all  thouglits  are  the  thoughts  of  somebody:  so 
also  unselfish  interests  have  to  be  somebody's 
interests.  If  we  were  not  interested  in  beauty, 
if  it  were  of  no  concern  to  our  happiness  whether 
things  were  beautiful  or  ugly,  we  should  mani- 


40  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

fest  not  the  maximum,  but  the  total  absence  of 
aesthetic  faculty.  The  disinterestedness  of  this 
pleasure  is,  therefore,  that  of  all  primitive  and 
intuitive  satisfactions,  which  are  in  no  way  con- 
ditioned by  a  reference  to  an  artificial  general 
concept,  like  that  of  the  self,  all  the  potency  of 
which  must  itself  be  derived  from  the  indepen- 
dent energy  of  its  component  elements.  I  care 
about  myself  because  *' myself "  is  a  name  for  the 
things  I  have  at  heart.  To  set  up  the  verbal 
figment  of  personality  and  make  it  an  object  of 
concern  apart  from  the  interests  which  were  its 
content  and  substance,  turns  the  moralist  into 
a  pedant,  and  ethics  into  a  superstition.  The 
self  which  is  the  object  of  amour  propre  is  an 
idol  of  the  tribe,  and  needs  to  be  disintegrated 
into  the  primitive  objective  interests  that  under- 
lie it  before  the  cultus  of  it  can  be  justified  by 
reason. 

The  differentia       §  9.   The   supposcd   disinterestedness 

of  cesthetic  o  ^  c   ^  ^  •     , 

pleasure  not  01  our  love  01  Dcauty  passcs  into  an- 
its  universal-  other  characteristic  of  it  often  regarded 
as  essential,  —  its  universality.  Tlie 
pleasures  of  the  senses  have,  it  is  said,  no  dogma- 
tism in  them;  that  anything  gives  me  pleasure 
involves  no  assertion  about  its  capacity  to  give 
pleasure  to  another.  But  when  I  judge  a  thing  to 
be  beautiful,  my  judgment  means  that  the  thing 
is  beautiful  in  itself,  or  (what  is  the  same  thing 
more  critically  expressed)  that  it  should  seem  so 
to  everybody.     The  claim  to  universality  is,  ac- 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  41 

cording  to  this  doctrine,  the  essence  of  the  aes- 
thetic;  what  makes  the  perception  of  beauty  a 
judgment  rather  than  a  sensation.  All  sesthetic 
precepts  would  be  impossible,  and  all  criticism 
arbitrary  and  subjective,  unless  we  admit  a  para- 
doxical universality  in  our  judgment,  the  philo- 
sophical implications  of  which  we  may  then  go 
on  to  develope.  But  we  are  fortunately  not  re- 
quired to  enter  the  labyrinth  into  which  this 
method  leads ;  there  is  a  much  simpler  and  clearer 
way  of  studying  such  questions,  which  is  to  chal- 
lenge and  analyze  the  assertion  before  us  and  seek 
its  basis  in  human  nature.  Before  this  is  done, 
we  should  run  the  risk  of  expanding  a  natural 
misconception  or  inaccuracy  of  thought  into  an 
inveterate  and  pernicious  prejudice  by  making  it 
the  centre  of  an  elaborate  construction. 

That  the  claim  of  universality  is  such  a  natural 
inaccuracy  will  not  be  hard  to  show.  There  is 
notoriously  no  great  agreement  upon  aesthetic 
matters;  and  such  agreement  as  there  is,  is  based 
upon  similarity  of  origin,  nature,  and  circumstance 
among  men,  a  similarity  which,  where  it  exists, 
tends  to  bring  about  identity  in  all  judgments  and 
feelings.  It  is  unmeaning  to  say  that  what  is 
beautiful  to  one  man  ought  to  be  beautiful  to 
another.  If  their  senses  are  the  same,  their  asso- 
ciations and  dispositions  similar,  then  the  same 
thing  will  certainly  be  beautiful  to  both.  If  their 
natures  are  different,  the  form  which  to  one  will 
be  entrancing  will  be  to  another  even  invisible, 
because  his  classifications  and  discriminations  in 


42  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

perception  will  be  different,  and  he  may  see  a  hid- 
eous detached  fragment  or  a  shajjeless  aggregate  of 
things,  in  what  to  another  is  a  perfect  whole  —  so 
entirely  are  the  unities  of  objects  unities  of  func- 
tion and  use.  It  is  absurd  to  say  tha.t  what  is 
invisible  to  a  given  being  ought  to  seem  beautiful 
to  him.  Evidently  this  obligation  of  recognizing 
the  same  qualities  is  conditioned  by  the  possession 
of  the  same  faculties.  But  no  two  men  have 
exactly  the  same  faculties,  nor  can  things  have 
for  any  two  exactly  the  same  values. 

What  is  loosely  expressed  by  saying  that  any 
one  ought  to  see  this  or  that  beauty  is  that  he 
would  see  it  if  his  disposition,  training,  or  atten- 
tion were  what  our  ideal  demands  for  him;  and 
our  ideal  of  what  any  one  should  be  has  complex 
but  discoverable  sources.  We  take,  for  instance, 
a  certain  pleasure  in  having  our  own  judgments 
supported  by  those  of  others;  we  are  intolerant, 
if  not  of  the  existence  of  a  nature  different  from 
our  own,  at  least  of  its  expression  in  words  and 
judgments.  We  are  confirmed  or  made  happy  in 
our  doubtful  opinions  by  seeing  them  accepted 
universally.  We  are  unable  to  find  the  basis  of 
our  taste  in  our  own  experience  and  therefore 
refuse  to  look  for  it  there.  If  we  were  sure  of 
our  ground,  we  should  be  willing  to  acquiesce  in 
the  naturally  different  feelings  and  ways  of  others, 
as  a  man  who  is  conscious  of  speaking  his  lan- 
guage with  the  accent  of  the  capital  confesses  its 
arbitrariness  with  gayety,  and  is  pleased  and  in- 
terested in  the  variations  of  it  he  observes  in  pro- 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  43 

vincials;  but  the  provincial  is  alwaj^s  zealous  to 
show  that  he  has  reason  and  ancient  authority  to 
justify  his  oddities.  So  people  who  have  no  sen- 
sations, and  do  not  know  why  they  judge,  are 
always  tr3dng  to  show  that  they  judge  by  uni- 
versal reason. 

Thus  the  frailty  and  superficiality  of  our  own 
judgments  cannot  brook  contradiction.  We  abhor 
another  man's  doubt  when  we  cannot  tell  him 
why  we  ourselves  believe.  Our  ideal  of  other 
men  tends  therefore  to  include  the  agreement  of 
their  judgments  with  our  own;  and  although  we 
might  acknowledge  the  fatuity  of  this  demand  in 
regard  to  natures  very  different  from  the  human, 
we  may  be  unreasonable  enough  to  require  that 
all  races  should  admire  the  same  style  of  archi- 
tecture, and  all  ages  the  same  poets. 

The  great  actual  unity  of  human  taste  within 
the  range  of  conventional  history  helps  the  pre- 
tension. But  in  principle  it  is  untenable.  Noth- 
ing has  less  to  do  with  the  real  merit  of  a  work  of 
imagination  than  the  capacity  of  all  men  to  appre- 
ciate it;  the  true  test  is  the  degree  and  kind  of 
satisfaction  it  can  give  to  him  who  appreciates 
it  most.  The  symphony  would  lose  nothing  if 
half  mankind  had  always  been  deaf,  as  nine- 
tenths  of  them  actually  are  to  the  intricacies  of 
its  harmonies;  but  it  would  have  lost  much  if 
no  Beethoven  had  existed.  And  more :  incapacity 
to  appreciate  certain  types  of  beauty  may  be  the 
condition  sme  qua  non  for  the  appreciation  of 
another  kind;  the  greatest  capacity  both  for  en- 


44  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

joyment  and  creation  is  highly  sj)ecialized  and 
exclusive,  and  hence  the  greatest  ages  of  art  have 
often  been  strangely  intolerant. 

The  invectives  of  one  school  against  another,  per- 
verse as  they  are  philosophically,  are  artistically 
often  signs  of  health,  because  they  indicate  a  vital 
appreciation  of  certain  kinds  of  beauty,  a  love  of 
them  that  has  grown  into  a  jealous  passion.  The 
architects  that  have  pieced  out  the  imperfecti'ons 
of  ancient  buildings  with  their  own  thoughts,  like 
Charles  V.  when  he  raised  his  massive  palace 
beside  the  Alhambra,  may  be  condemned  from  a 
certain  point  of  view.  They  marred  much  by 
their  interference;  but  they  showed  a  splendid 
confidence  in  their  own  intuitions,  a  proud  asser- 
tion of  their  own  taste,  which  is  the  greatest  evi- 
dence of  aesthetic  sincerity.  On  the  contrary,  our 
own  gropings,  eclecticism,  and  archaeology  are  the 
symptoms  of  impotence.  If  we  were  less  learned 
and  less  just,  we  might  be  more  efScient.  If  our 
appreciation  were  less  general,  it  might  be  more 
real,  and  if  we  trained  our  imagination  into  exclu- 
siveness,  it  might  attain  to  character. 

The  differentia  §  IQ.  There  is,  howcvcr.  Something 
'piZliirl'^its  more  in  the  claim  to  universality  in 
objectification.  gesthctic  judgments  than  the  desire  to 
generalize  our  own  opinions.  There  is  the  ex- 
pression of  a  curious  but  well-known  psychologi- 
cal phenomenon,  viz.,  the  transformation  of  an 
element  of  sensation  into  the  quality  of  a  thing. 
If  we  say  that  other  men  should  see  the  beauties 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  45 

we  see,  it  is  because  we  think  those  beauties  are 
in  the  object,  like  its  colour,  proportion,  or  size. 
Our  judgment  appears  to  us  merely  the  percep- 
tion and  discovery  of  an  external  existence,  of  the 
real  excellence  that  is  without.  But  this  notion 
is  radically  absurd  and  contradictory.  Beauty,  as 
we  have  seen,  is  a  value ;  it  cannot  be  conceived  as 
an  independent  existence  which  affects  our  senses 
and  Avhich  we  consequently  perceive.  It  exists  in 
perception,  and  cannot  exist  otherwise.  A  beauty 
not  perceived  is  a  pleasure  not  felt,  and  a  contra- 
diction. But  modern  philosophy  has  taught  us  to 
say  the  same  thing  of  every  element  of  the  per- 
ceived world ;  all  are  sensations ;  and  their  group- 
ing into  objects  imagined  to  be  permanent  and 
external  is  the  work  of  certain  habits  of  our  intel- 
ligence. We  should  be  incapable  of  surveying  or 
retaining  the  diffused  experiences  of  life,  unless 
we  organized  and  classified  them,  and  out  of  the 
chaos  of  impressions  framed  the  world  of  conven- 
tional and  recognizable  objects. 

How  this  is  done  is  explained  by  the  current 
theories  of  perception.  External  objects  usually 
affect  various  senses  at  once,  the  impressions  of 
which  are  thereby  associated.  Repeated  experi- 
ences of  one  object  are  also  associated  on  account 
of  their  similarity;  hence  a  double  tendency  to 
merge  and  unify  into  a  single  percept,  to  which 
a  name  is  attached,  the  group  of  those  memories 
and  reactions  which  in  fact  had  one  external  thing 
for  their  cause.  But  this  percept,  once  formed,  is 
clearly  different  from  those  particular  experiences 


46  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

out  of  which  it  grew.  It  is  permanent,  they  are 
variable.  They  are  but  partial  views  and  glimpses 
of  it.  The  constituted  notion  therefore  comes  to 
be  the  reality,  and  the  materials  of  it  merely  the 
appearance.  The  distinction  between  substance 
and  quality,  reality  and  appearance,  matter  and 
mind,  has  no  other  origin. 

The  objects  thus  conceived  and  distinguished 
from  our  ideas  of  them,  are  at  first  compacted 
of  all  the  impressions,  feelings,  and  memories, 
which  offer  themselves  for  association  and  fall 
within  the  vortex  of  the  amalgamating  imagi- 
nation. Every  sensation  we  get  from  a  thing  is 
originally  treated  as  one  of  its  qualities.  Experi- 
ment, however,  and  the  practical  need  of  a  simpler 
conception  of  the  structure  of  objects  lead  us  grad- 
ually to  reduce  the  qualities  of  the  object  to  a 
minimum,  and  to  regard  most  perceptions  as  an 
effect  of  those  few  qualities  upon  us.  These  few 
primary  qualities,  like  extension  which  we  persist 
in  treating  as  independently  real  and  as  the  qual- 
ity of  a  substance,  are  those  which  suffice  to 
explain  the  order  of  our  experiences.  All  the 
rest,  like  colour,  are  relegated  to  the  subjective 
sphere,  as  merely  effects  upon  our  minds,  and 
apparent  or  secondary  qualities  of  tlie  object. 

But  this  distinction  has  only  a  practical  justifica- 
tion. Convenience  and  economy  of  thought  alone 
determine  what  combination  of  our  sensations  we 
shall  continue  to  objectify  and  treat  as  the  cause  of 
the  rest.  The  right  and  tendency  to  be  objective 
is  equal  in  all,  since  they  are  all  prior  to  the  arti- 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  47 

fice  of  thought  by  which  we  separate  the  concept 
from  its  materials,  the  thing  from  our  experiences. 

The  qualities  which  we  now  conceive  to  belong 
to  real  objects  are  for  the  most  part  images  of 
sight  and  touch.  One  of  the  first  classes  of  effects 
to  be  treated  as  secondary  were  naturally  pleasures 
and  pains,  since  it  could  commonly  conduce  very 
little  to  intelligent  and  successful  action  to  con- 
ceive our  pleasures  and  pains  as  resident  in  objects. 
But  emotions  are  essentially  capable  of  objectifica- 
tion,  as  well  as  impressions  of  sense;  and  one  may 
well  believe  that  a  primitive  and  inexperienced 
consciousness  would  rather  people  the  world  with 
ghosts  of  its  own  terrors  and  passions  than  with 
projections  of  those  luminous  and  mathematical 
concepts  which  as  yet  it  could  hardly  have  formed. 

This  animistic  and  mythological  habit  of  thought 
still  holds  its  own  at  the  confines  of  knowledge, 
where  mechanical  explanations  are  not  found.  In 
ourselves,  where  nearness  makes  observation  difii- 
cult,  in  the  intricate  chaos  of  animal  and  human 
life,  we  still  appeal  to  the  efficacy  of  will  and 
ideas,  as  also  in  the  remote  night  of  cosmic  and 
religious  problems.  But  in  all  the  intermediate 
realm  of  vulgar  day,  where  mechanical  science  has 
made  progress,  the  inclusion  of  emotional  or  pas- 
sionate elements  in  the  concept  of  the  reality 
would  be  now  an  extravagance.  Here  our  idea 
of  things  is  composed  exclusively  of  perceptual 
elements,  of  the  ideas  of  form  and  of  motion. 

The  beauty  of  objects,  however,  forms  an  ex- 
ception to  this  rule.     Beauty  is  an  emotional  ele- 


48  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ment,  a  pleasure  of  ours,  which,  nevertheless  we 
regard  as  a  quality  of  things.  But  we  are  now 
prepared  to  understand  the  nature  of  this  excep- 
tion. It  is  the  survival  of  a  tendency  originally 
universal  to  make  every  effect  of  a  thing  upon  us 
a  constituent  of  its  conceived  nature.  The  scien- 
tific idea  of  a  thing  is  a  great  abstraction  from  the 
mass  of  perceptions  and  reactions  which  that  thing 
produces;  the  aesthetic  idea  is  less  abstract,  since 
it  retains  the  emotional  reaction,  the  pleasure  of 
the  perception,  as  an  integral  part  of  the  conceived 
thing. 

Nor  is  it  hard  to  find  the  ground  of  this  survival 
in  the  sense  of  beauty  of  an  objectification  of  feel- 
ing elsewhere  extinct.  Most  of  the  pleasures  which 
objects  cause  are  easily  distinguished  and  separated 
from  the  perception  of  the  object:  the  object  has  to 
be  applied  to  a  particular  organ,  like  the  palate, 
or  swallowed  like  wine,  or  used  and  operated  upon 
in  some  way  before  the  pleasure  arises.  The  cohe- 
sion is  therefore  slight  between  the  pleasure  and 
the  other  associated  elements  of  sense;  the  pleas- 
ure is  separated  in  time  from  the  perception,  or 
it  is  localized  in  a  different  organ,  and  conse- 
quently is  at  once  recognized  as  an  effect  and 
not  as  a  quality  of  the  object.  But  when  the 
process  of  perception  itself  is  pleasant,  as  it  may 
easily  be,  when  the  intellectual  operation,  by 
which  the  elements  of  sense  are  associated  and 
projected,  and  the  concept  of  the  form  and  sub- 
stance of  the  thing  produced,  is  naturally  delight- 
ful, then  we  have  a  pleasure  intimately  bound  up 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  49 

in  the  thing,  inseparable  from  its  character  and 
constitution,  the  seat  of  which  in  us  is  the  same 
as  the  seat  of  the  perception.  We  naturally  fail, 
under  these  circumstances,  to  separate  the  pleasure 
from  the  other  objectified  feelings.  It  becomes, 
like  them,  a  quality  of  the  object,  which  we  distin- 
guish from  pleasures  not  so  incorporated  in  the 
perception  of  things,  by  giving  it  the  name  of 
beauty. 

§  11.  We  have  now  reached  our  defi-  ^^«  definition 
nition  of  beauty,  which,  in  the  terms  ''^^*""'^- 
of  our  successive  analysis  and  narrowing  of  the 
conception,  is  value  positive,  intrinsic,  and  objec- 
tified. Or,  in  less  technical  language.  Beauty  is 
pleasure  regarded  as  the  quality  of  a  thing. 

This  definition  is  intended  to  sum  up  a  variety 
of  distinctions  and  identifications  which  should 
perhaps  be  here  more  explicitly  set  down. 
Beauty  is  a  value,  that  is,  it  is  not  a  percep- 
tion of  a  matter  of  fact  or  of  a  relation:  it  is 
an  emotion,  an  affection  of  our  volitional  and 
appreciative  nature.  An  object  cannot  be  beau- 
tiful if  it  can  give  pleasure  to  nobody:  a  beauty 
to  which  all  men  were  forever  indifferent  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms. 

In  the  second  place,  this  value  is  positive,  it  is  the 
sense  of  the  presence  of  something  good,  or  (in  the 
case  of  ugliness)  of  its  absence.  It  is  never  the  per- 
ception of  a  positive  evil,  it  is  never  a  negative 
value.  That  we  are  endowed  with  the  sense  of 
beauty  is  a  pure  gain  which  brings  no  evil  with  it. 


60  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

When  the  ugly  ceases  to  be  amusing  or  merely  un- 
interesting and  becomes  disgusting,  it  becomes  in- 
deed a  positive  evil:  but  a  moral  and  practical, 
not  an  aesthetic  one.  In  aesthetics  that  saying  is 
true  —  often  so  disingenuous  in  ethics  —  that  evil 
is  nothing  but  the  absence  of  good:  for  even  the 
tedium  and  vulgarity  of  an  existence  without 
beauty  is  not  itself  ugly  so  much  as  lamentable 
and  degrading.  The  absence  of  aesthetic  goods 
is  a  moral  evil:  the  aesthetic  evil  is  merely  rela- 
tive, and  means  less  of  aesthetic  good  than  was 
expected  at  the  place  and  time.  No  form  in 
itself  gives  pain,  although  some  forms  give  pain 
by  causing  a  shock  of  surprise  even  when  they 
are  really  beautiful:  as  if  a  mother  found  a  fine 
bull  pup  in  her  child's  cradle,  when  her  pain 
would  not  be  aesthetic  in  its  nature. 

Further,  this  pleasure  must  not  be  in  the  conse- 
quence of  the  utility  of  the  object  or  event,  but  in 
its  immediate  perception;  in  other  words,  beauty 
is  an  ultimate  good,  something  that  gives  satis- 
faction to  a  natural  function,  to  some  funda- 
mental need  or  capacity  of  our  minds.  Beauty  is 
therefore  a  positive  value  that  is  intrinsic;  it  is 
a  pleasure.  These  two  circumstances  sufficiently 
separate  the  sphere  of  aesthetics  from  that  of 
ethics.  Moral  values  are  generally  negative,  and 
always  remote.  Morality  has  to  do  with  the 
avoidance  of  evil  and  the  pursuit  of  good: 
aesthetics  only  with  enjoyment. 

Finally,  the  pleasures  of  sense  are  distinguished 
from   the  perception   of   beauty,    as  sensation   in 


THE  NATURE  OF  BEAUTY  51 

general  is  distinguished  from  perception;  by  the 
objectification  of  the  elements  and  their  ap- 
pearance as  qualities  rather  of  things  than  of 
consciousness.  The  passage  from  sensation  to 
perception  is  gradual,  and  the  path  may  be 
sometimes  retraced:  so  it  is  with  beauty  and 
the  plea^sures  of  sensation.  There  is  no  sharp 
line  between  them,  but  it  depends  upon  the 
degree  of  objectivity  my  feeling  has  attained  at 
the  moment  whether  I  say  "It  pleases  me,"  or 
"It  is  beautiful."  If  I  am  self-conscious  and 
critical,  I  shall  probably  use  one  phrase;  if  I 
am  impulsive  and  susceptible,  the  other.  The 
more  remote,  interwoven,  and  inextricable  the 
pleasure  is,  the  more  objective  it  will  appear; 
and  the  union  of  two  pleasures  often  makes  one 
beauty.  In  Shakespeare's  LIVth  sonnet  are  these 
words : 

O  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give ! 

The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 

For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 

The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 

As  the  perfumfed  tincture  of  the  roses, 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses. 

But,  for  their  beauty  only  is  their  show, 

They  live  unv/ooed  and  unrespected  fade  ; 

Die  to  themselves.     Sv^reet  roses  do  not  so  : 

Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made. 

One  added  ornament,    we    see,    turns   the  deep 
dye,    which   was   but    show   and    mere    sensation 


62  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

before,  into  an  element  of  beauty  and  reality; 
and  as  truth,  is  here  the  co-operation  of  percep- 
tions, so  beauty  is  the  co-operation  of  pleasures. 
If  colour,  form,  and  motion  are  hardly  beautiful 
without  the  sweetness  of  the  odour,  how  much 
more  necessary  would  they  be  for  the  sweetness 
itself  to  become  a  beauty!  If  we  had  the  per- 
fume in  a  flask,  no  one  would  think  of  calling 
it  beautiful:  it  would  give  us  too  detached  and 
controllable  a  sensation.  There  would  be  no 
object  in  which  it  could  be  easily  incorporated. 
But  let  it  float  from  the  garden,  and  it  will  add 
another  sensuous  charm  to  objects  simultaneously 
recognized,  and  help  to  make  them  beautiful. 
Thus  beauty  is  constituted  by  the  objectification 
of  pleasure.     It  is  pleasure  objectified. 


PART   II 
THE   MATEKIALS    OF   BEAUTY 

§  12.    Our  task  will   now  be  to  pass   /i//  /'"man 

.1  .  T  J  p  functions  may 

m  review  the  various  elements  oi  our  contribute  to 
consciousness,  and  see  what  each  con-  ^^e  sense  of 

beauty, 

tributes  to  the  beauty  of  the  world. 
We  shall  find  that  they  do  so  whenever  they  are 
inextricably  associated  with  the  objectifying  activ- 
ity of  the  understanding.  Whenever  the  golden 
thread  of  pleasure  enters  that  web  of  things  which 
our  intelligence  is  always  busily  spinning,  it  lends 
to  the  visible  world  that  mysterious  and  subtle 
charm  which  we  call  beauty. 

There  is  no  function  of  our  nature  which  can- 
not contribute  something  to  this  effect,  but  one 
function  differs  very  much  from  another  in  the 
amount  and  directness  of  its  contribution.  The 
pleasures  of  the  eye  and  ear,  of  the  imagina- 
tion and  memory,  are  the  most  easily  objecti- 
fied and  merged  in  ideas;  but  it  would  betray 
inexcusable  haste  and  slight  appreciation  of  the 
principle  involved,  if  we  called  them  the  only 
materials  of  beauty.  Our  effort  will  rather  be 
to  discover  its  other  sources,  which  have  been 
more  generally  ignored,  and  point  out  their  im- 
portance. For  the  five  senses  and  the  three 
53 


54  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

powers  of  the  soul,  which  play  so  large  a  part 
in  traditional  psychology,  are  by  no  means  the 
only  sources  or  factors  of  consciousness ;  they  are 
more  or  less  external  divisions  of  its  content,  and 
not  even  exhaustive  of  that.  The  nature  and 
changes  of  our  life  have  deeper  roots,  and  are 
controlled  by  less  obvious  processes. 

The  human  body  is  a  machine  that  holds 
together  by  virtue  of  certain  vital  functions,  on 
the  cessation  of  which  it  is  dissolved.  Some  of 
these,  like  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  the 
growth  and  decay  of  the  tissues,  are  at  first 
sight  unconscious.  Yet  any  important  disturb- 
ance of  these  fundamental  processes  at  once  pro- 
duces great  and  painful  changes  in  consciousness. 
Slight  alterations  are  not  without  their  conscious 
echo:  and  the  whole  temper  and  tone  of  our 
mind,  the  strength  of  our  passions,  the  grip  and 
concatenation  of  our  habits,  our  power  of  atten- 
tion, and  the  liveliness  of  our  fancy  and  affec- 
tions are  due  to  the  influence  of  these  vital  forces. 
They  do  not,  perhaps,  constitute  the  whole  basis 
of  any  one  idea  or  emotion :  but  they  are  the  con- 
ditions of  the  existence  and  character  of  all. 

Particularly  important  are  they  for  the  value  of 
our  experience.  They  constitute  health,  without 
which  no  pleasure  can  be  pure.  They  determine 
our  impulses  in  leisure,  and  furnish  that  surplus 
energy  which  we  spend  in  play,  in  art,  and  in 
speculation.  The  attraction  of  these  pursuits,  and 
the  very  existence  of  an  aesthetic  sphere,  is  due 
to  the  efficiency  and  perfection  of  our  vital  pro- 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  55 

cesses.  The  pleasures  which  they  involve  are  not 
exclusively  bound  to  any  particular  object,  and 
therefore  do  not  account  for  the  relative  beauty 
of  things.  They  are  loose  and  unlocalized,  hav- 
ing no  special  organ,  or  one  which  is  internal  and 
hidden  within  the  body.  They  therefore  remain 
undiscriminated  in  consciousness,  and  can  serve 
to  add  interest  to  any  object,  or  to  cast  a  gen- 
eral glamour  over  the  world,  very  favourable  to 
its  interest  and  beauty. 

The  sesthetic  value  of  vital  functions  differs 
according  to  their  physiological  concomitants: 
those  that  are  favourable  to  ideation  are  of 
course  more  apt  to  extend  something  of  their 
intimate  warmth  to  the  pleasures  of  contempla- 
tion, and  thus  to  intensify  the  sense  of  beauty 
and  the  interest  of  thought.  Those,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  for  physiological  reasons  tend  to 
inhibit  ideation,  and  to  drown  the  attention  in 
dumb  and  unrepresentable  feelings,  are  less  fa- 
vourable to  sesthetic  activity.  The  double  effect 
of  drowsiness  and  reverie  will  illustrate  this 
diiference.  The  heaviness  of  sleep  seems  to  fall 
first  on  the  outer  senses,  and  of  course  makes 
them  incapable  of  acute  impressions;  but  if  it 
goes  no  further,  it  leaves  the  imagination  all  the 
freer,  and  by  heightening  the  colours  of  the  fancy, 
often  suggests  and  reveals  beautiful  images. 
There  is  •  a  kind  of  poetry  and  invention  that 
comes  only  in  such  moments.  In  them  many 
lovely  melodies  must  first  have  been  heard,  and 
centaurs  and  angels  originally  imagined. 


56  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

If,  however,  the  lethargy  is  more  complete,  or  if 
the  cause  of  it  is  such  that  the  imagination  is  re- 
tarded while  the  senses  remain  awake,  —  as  is  the 
case  with  an  over-fed  or  over-exercised  body,  —  we 
have  a  state  of  aesthetic  insensibility.  The  exhil- 
aration which  comes  with  pure  and  refreshing  air 
has  a  marked  influence  on  our  appreciations. 
To  it  is  largely  due  the  beauty  of  the  morning, 
and  the  entirely  different  charm  it  has  from  the 
evening.  The  opposite  state  of  all  the  functions 
here  adds  an  opposite  emotion  to  externally  simi- 
lar scenes,  making  both  infinitely  but  differently 
beautiful. 

It  would  be  curious  and  probably  surprising  to 
discover  how  much  the  pleasure  of  breathing  has 
to  do  with  our  highest  and  most  transcendental 
ideals.  It  is  not  merely  a  metaphor  that  makes 
us  couple  airiness  with  exquisiteness  and  breath- 
lessness  with  awe;  it  is  the  actual  recurrence  of  a 
sensation  in  the  throat  and  lungs  that  gives  those 
impressions  an  immediate  power,  prior  to  all  re- 
flection upon  their  significance.  It  is,  therefore, 
to  this  vital  sensation  of  deep  or  arrested  respi- 
ration that  the  impressiveness  of  those  objects  is 
immediately  due. 

The  influence         §  13.    Half-way    betwccn    vital    and 

of  the  passion  •    i      p  -•  ^'  J_^  ^      • 

of  love.  social    lunctions,    lies    the    sexual    in- 

stinct. If  nature  had  solved  the  prob- 
lem of  reproduction  without  the  differentiation  of 
sex,  our  emotional  life  would  have  been  radically 
different.     So  profound  and,  especially  in  woman, 


THE  MATERIALS   OF  BEAUTY  57 

SO  pervasive  an  influence  does  this  function  exert, 
that  we  should  betray  an  entirely  unreal  view  of 
human  nature  if  we  did  not  inquire  into  the 
relations  of  sex  with  our  aesthetic  susceptibility. 
We  must  not  expect,  however,  any  great  differ- 
ence between  man  and  woman  in  the  scope  or 
objects  of  sesthetic  interest:  what  is  important 
in  emotional  life  is  not  which  sex  an  animal  has, 
but  that  it  has  sex  at  all.  For  if  we  consider  the 
difficult  problem  which  nature  had  to  solve  in 
sexual  reproduction,  and  the  nice  adjustment  of 
instinct  which  it  demands,  we  shall  see  that  the 
reactions  and  susceptibilities  which  must  be 
implanted  in  the  individual  are  for  the  most 
part  identical  in  both  sexes,  as  the  sexual  organi- 
zation is  itself  fundamentally  similar  in  both. 
Indeed,  individuals  of  various  species  and  the 
whole  animal  kingdom  have  the  same  sexual  dis- 
position, although,  of  course,  the  particular  object 
destined  to  call  forth  the  complete  sexual  reaction, 
differs  with  every  species,  and  with  each  sex. 

If  we  were  dealing  with  the  philosophy  of  love, 
and  not  with  that  of  beauty,  our  problem  would 
be  to  find  out  by  what  machinery  this  fundamen- 
tal susceptibility,  common  to  all  animals  of  both 
sexes,  is  gradually  directed  to  more  and  more 
definite  objects :  first,  to  one  species  and  one  sex, 
and  ultimately  to  one  individual.  It  is  not 
enough  that  sexual  organs  should  be  differenti- 
ated: the  connexion  must  be  established  between 
them  and  the  outer  senses,  so  that  the  animal 
may  recognize  and  pursue  the  proper  object. 


58  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

The  case  of  lifelong  fidelity  to  one  mate  —  perhaps 
even  to  an  unsatisfied  and  hopeless  love  —  is  the 
maximum  of  differentiation,  which  even  overleaps 
the  utility  which  gave  it  a  foothold  in  nature,  and 
defeats  its  OAvn  object.  For  the  differentiation 
of  the  instinct  in  respect  to  sex,  age,  and  species 
is  obviously  necessary  to  its  success  as  a  device 
for  reproduction.  While  this  differentiation  is 
not  complete, —  and  it  often  is  not, —  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  groping  and  waste;  and  the  force 
and  constancy  of  the  instinct  must  make  up  for 
its  lack  of  precision.  A  great  deal  of  vital  energy 
is  thus  absorbed  by  this  ill-adjusted  function. 
The  most  economical  arrangement  which  can  be 
conceived,  would  be  one  by  which  only  the  one 
female  best  fitted  to  bear  offspring  to  a  male 
should  arouse  his  desire,  and  only  so  many  times 
as  it  was  well  she  should  grow  pregnant,  thus 
leaving  his  energy  and  attention  free  at  all  other 
times  to  exercise  the  other  faculties  of  his  nature. 

If  this  ideal  had  been  reached,  the  instinct,  like 
all  those  perfectly  adjusted,  would  tend  to  become 
unconscious ;  and  we  should  miss  those  secondary 
effects  with  which  we  are  exclusively  concerned 
in  aesthetics.  For  it  is  precisely  from  the  waste, 
from  the  radiation  of  the  sexual  passion,  that 
beauty  borrows  warmth.  As  a  harp,  made  to 
vibrate  to  the  fingers,  gives  some  music  to  every 
wind,  so  the  nature  of  man,  necessarily  suscepti- 
ble to  woman,  becomes  simultaneously  sensitive 
to  other  influences,  and  capable  of  tenderness 
toward  every  object.     The  capacity  to  love  gives 


THE  MATERIALS   OF  BEAUTY  59 

our  contemplation  that  glow  Avithout  wliich  it 
might  often  fail  to  manifest  beauty;  and  the 
whole  sentimental  side  of  our  aesthetic  sensibility 
—  without  which  it  would  be  perceptive  and 
mathematical  rather  than  sesthetic  —  is  due  to 
our  sexual  organization  remotely  stirred. 

The  attraction  of  sex  could  not  become  efficient 
unless  the  senses  were  first  attracted.  The  eye 
must  be  fascinated  and  the  ear  charmed  by  the 
object  which  nature  intends  should  be  pursued. 
Both  sexes  for  this  reason  develope  secondary 
sexual  characteristics;  and  the  sexual  emotions 
are  simultaneously  extended  to  various  secondary 
objects.  The  colour,  the  grace,  the  form,  which 
become  the  stimuli  of  sexual  passion,  and  the 
guides  of  sexual  selection,  acquire,  before  they 
can  fulfil  that  office,  a  certain  intrinsic  charm. 
This  charm  is  not  only  present  for  reasons  w^hich, 
in  an  admissible  sense,  we  may  call  teleological, 
on  account,  that  is,  of  its  past  utility  in  reproduc- 
tion, but  its  intensity  and  power  are  due  to  the 
simultaneous  stirring  of  profound  sexual  impulses. 
Not,  of  course,  that  any  specifically  sexual  ideas 
are  connected  with  these  feelings :  such  ideas  are 
absent  in  a  modest  and  inexperienced  mind  even 
in  the  obviously  sexual  passions  of  love  and  jeal- 
ousy. 

These  secondary  objects  of  interest,  which  are 
some  of  the  most  conspicuous  elements  of  beauty, 
are  to  be  called  sexual  for  these  two  reasons: 
because  the  contingencies  of  the  sexual  function 
have   helped  to  establish  them  in  our  race,  and 


60  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

because  they  owe  their  fascination  in  a  great 
measure  to  the  participation  of  our  sexual  life 
in  the  reaction  which  they  cause. 

If  any  one  were  desirous  to  produce  a  being 
with  a  great  susceptibility  to  beauty,  he  could 
not  invent  an  instrument  better  designed  for  that 
object  than  sex.  Individuals  that  need  not  unite 
for  the  birth  and  rearing  of  each  generation, 
might  retain  a  savage  independence.  For  them 
it  would  not  be  necessary  that  any  vision  should 
fascinate,  or  that  any  languor  should  soften,  the 
prying  cruelty  of  the  eye.  But  sex  endows  the 
individual  with  a  dumb  and  powerful  instinct, 
which  carries  his  body  and  soul  continually 
towards  another;  makes  it  one  of  the  dearest 
employments  of  his  life  to  select  and  pursue  a 
companion,  and  joins  to  possession  the  keenest 
pleasure,  to  rivalry  the  fiercest  rage,  and  to  soli- 
tude an  eternal  melancholy. 

What  more  could  be  needed  to  suffuse  the  world 
with  the  deepest  meaning  and  beauty?  The  atten- 
tion is  fixed  upon  a  well-defined  object,  and  all  the 
effects  it  produces  in  the  mind  are  easily  regarded 
as  powers  or  qualities  of  that  object.  But  these 
effects  are  here  powerful  and  profound.  The 
soul  is  stirred  to  its  depths.  Its  hidden  treas- 
ures are  brought  to  the  surface  of  consciousness. 
The  imagination  and  the  heart  awake  for  the 
first  time.  All  these  new  values  crystallize  about 
the  objects  then  offered  to  the  mind.  If  the  fancy 
is  occupied  by  the  image  of  a  single  person,  whose 
qualities  have  had  the  power  of  precipitating  this 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  61 

revolution,  all  the  values  gather  about  that  one 
image.  The  object  becomes  perfect,  and  we  are 
said  to  be  in  love.^  If  the  stimulus  does  not 
appear  as  a  definite  image,  the  values  evoked 
are  dispersed  over  the  world,  and  we  are  said  to 
have  become  lovers  of  nature,  and  to  have  dis- 
covered the  beauty  and  meaning  of  things. 

To  a  certain  extent  this  kind  of  interest  will 
centre  in  the  proper  object  of  sexual  passion,  and 
in  the  special  characteristics  of  the  opposite  sex; 
and  we  find  accordingly  that  woman  is  the  most 
lovely  object  to  man,  and  man,  if  female  modesty 
would  confess  it,  the  most  interesting  to  woman. 
But  the  effects  of  so  fundamental  and  primitive 
a  reaction  are  much  more  general.  Sex  is  not 
the  only  object  of  sexual  passion.  When  love 
lacks  its  specific  object,  when  it  does  not  yet 
understand  itself,  or  has  been  sacrificed  to  some 
other  interest,  we  see  the  stifled  fire  bursting  out 
in  various  directions.  One  is  religious  devotion, 
another  is  zealous  philanthropy,  a  third  is  the 
fondling  of  pet  animals,  but  not  the  least  fortu- 
nate is  the  love  of  nature,  and  of  art;  for  nature 
also  is  often  a  second  mistress  that  consoles  us 
for  the  loss  of  a  first.  Passion  then  overflows 
and  visibly  floods  those  neighbouring  regions 
which  it  had  always  secretly  watered.  For  the 
same  nervous  organization  which  sex  involves, 
with  its  necessarily  wide  branchings  and  associa- 
tions in  the  brain,  must  be  partially  stimulated 

1  Cf .  Stendhal,  De  V Amour,  passim. 


62  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

by  other  objects  than  its  specific  or  ultimate  one; 
especially  in  man,  who,  unlike  some  of  the  lower 
animals,  has  not  his  instincts  clearly  distinct  and 
intermittent,  but  always  partially  active,  and 
never  active  in  isolation.  We  may  say,  then, 
that  for  man  all  nature  is  a  secondary  object  of 
sexual  passion,  and  that  to  this  fact  the  beauty 
of  nature  is  largely  due. 

Social  instincts  §  14.  The  fuuctiou  of  reproduction 
thetic  influ-  carrics  with  it  not  only  direct  modifi- 
^"^^-  cations  of   the  body  and  mind,  but   a 

whole  set  of  social  institutions,  for  the  existence 
of  which  social  instincts  and  habits  are  necessary 
in  man.  These  social  feelings,  the  parental,  the 
patriotic,  or  the  merely  gregarious,  are  not  of 
much  direct  value  for  sesthetics,  although,  as  is 
seen  in  the  case  of  fashions,  they  are  important  in 
determining  the  duration  and  prevalence  of  a  taste 
once  formed.  Indirectly  they  are  of  vast  impor- 
tance and  play  a  great  role  in  arts  like  poetry, 
where  the  effect  depends  on  what  is  signified  more 
than  on  what  is  offered  to  sense.  Any  appeal  to  a 
human  interest  rebounds  in  favour  of  a  work  of  art 
in  which  it  is  successfully  made.  That  interest, 
unsesthetic  in  itself,  helps  to  fix  the  attention  and 
to  furnish  subject-matter  and  momentum  to  arts 
and  modes  of  appreciation  which  are  aesthetic. 
Thus  comprehension  of  the  passion  of  love  is  nec- 
essary to  the  appreciation  of  numberless  songs, 
plays,  and  novels,  and  not  a  few  works  of  musical 
and  plastic  art. 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  63 

The  treatment  of  these  matters  must  be  post- 
poned until  we  are  prepared  to  deal  with  expres- 
sion—  the  most  complex  element  of  effect.  It  will 
suffice  here  to  point  out  why  social  and  gregarious 
impulses,  in  the  satisfaction  of  which  happiness 
mainly  resides,  are  those  in  which  beauty  finds  least 
support.  This  may  help  us  to  understand  better 
the  relations  between  sesthetics  and  Jiedonics,  and 
the  nature  of  that  objectification  in  which  we  have 
placed  the  difference  between  beauty  and  pleasure. 

So  long  as  happiness  is  conceived  as  a  poet 
might  conceive  it,  namely,  in  its  immediately  sen- 
suous and  emotional  factors,  so  long  as  we  live  in 
the  moment  and  make  our  happiness  consist  in  the 
simplest  things,  —  in  breathing,  seeing,  hearing, 
loving,  and  sleeping,  —  our  happiness  has  the 
same  substance,  the  same  elements,  as  our  aes- 
thetic delight,  for  it  is  aesthetic  delight  that 
makes  our  happiness.  Yet  poets  and  artists,  with 
their  immediate  and  esthetic  joys,  are  not  thought 
to  be  happy  men;  they  themselves  are  apt  to  be 
loud  in  their  lamentations,  and  to  regard  them- 
selves as  eminently  and  tragically  unhappy.  This 
arises  from  the  intensity  and  inconstancy  of  their 
emotions,  from  their  improvidence,  and  from  the 
eccentricity  of  their  social  habits.  While  among 
them  the  sensuous  and  vital  functions  have  the 
upper  hand,  the  gregarious  and  social  instincts 
are  subordinated  and  often  deranged;  and  their 
unhappiness  consists  in  the  sense  of  their  unfit- 
ness to  live  in  the  world  into  which  they  are 
born. 


64  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

But  man  is  pre-eminently  a  political  animal, 
and  social  needs  are  almost  as  fundamental  in 
him  as  vital  functions,  and  often  more  conscious. 
Friendship,  wealth,  reputation,  power,  and  influ- 
ence, when  added  to  family  life,  constitute  surely 
the  main  elements  of  happiness.  Now  these  are 
only  very  partially  composed  of  definite  images  of 
objects.  The  desire  for  them,  the  consciousness 
of  their  absence  or  possession,  comes  upon  us  only 
when  we  reflect,  when  we  are  planning,  consider- 
ing the  future,  gathering  the  words  of  others, 
rehearsing  their  scorn  or  admiration  for  ourselves, 
conceiving  possible  situations  in  which  our  virtue, 
our  fame  or  power  would  become  conspicuous, 
comparing  our  lot  with  that  of  others,  and  going 
through  other  discursive  processes  of  thought. 
Apprehension,  doubt,  isolation,  are  things  which 
come  upon  us  keenly  when  we  reflect  upon  our 
lives;  they  cannot  easily  become  qualities  of 
any  object.  If  by  chance  they  can,  they  acquire 
a  great  aesthetic  value.  For  instance,  "home," 
which  in  its  social  sense  is  a  concept  of  happi- 
ness, when  it  becomes  materialized  in  a  cottage 
and  a  garden  becomes  an  aesthetic  concept,  becomes 
a  beautiful  thing.  The  liappiness  is  objectified, 
and  the  object  beautified. 

Social  objects,  however,  are  seldom  thus  aes- 
thetic, because  they  are  not  thus  definitely  imag- 
inable. They  are  diffuse  and  abstract,  and  verbal 
rather  than  sensuous  in  their  materials.  There- 
fore the  great  emotions  that  go  with  them  are 
not    immediately   transmutable   into   beauty.      If 


THE   MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  65 

artists  and  poets  are  unhappy,  it  is  after  all  be- 
cause happiness  does  not  interest  them.  They 
cannot  seriously  pursue  it,  because  its  components 
are  not  components  of  beauty,  and  being  in  love 
with  beauty,  they  neglect  and  despise  those  unaes- 
thetic  social  virtues  in  the  operation  of  which  hap- 
piness is  found.  On  the  other  hand  those  who 
pursue  happiness  conceived  merely  in  the  abstract 
and  conventional  terms,  as  money,  success,  or  re- 
spectability, often  miss  that  real  and  fundamental 
part  of  happiness  which  flows  from  the  senses  and 
imagination.  This  element  is  what  aesthetics  sup- 
plies to  life ;  for  beauty  also  can  be  a  cause  and  a 
factor  of  happiness.  Yet  the  happiness  of  loving 
beauty  is  either  too  sensuous  to  be  stable,  or  else 
too  ultimate,  too  sacramental,  to  be  accounted  hap- 
piness by  the  worldly  mind. 

§  15.   The  senses  of  touch,  taste,  and  The  lower 

^  IP  senses. 

SQiell,  although  capable  no  doubt  of  a 
great  development,  have  not  served  in  man  for  the 
purposes  of  intelligence  so  much  as  those  of  sight 
and  hearing.  It  is  natural  that  as  they  remain 
normally  in  the  background  of  consciousness,  and 
furnish  the  least  part  of  our  objectified  ideas,  the 
pleasures  connected  with  them  should  remain  also 
detached,  and  unused  for  the  purpose  of  apprecia- 
tion of  nature.  They  have  been  called  the  unses- 
thetic,  as  well  as  the  lower,  senses;  but  the 
propriety  of  these  epithets,  which  is  undeniable, 
is  due  not  to  any  intrinsic  sensuality  or  baseness 
of  these  senses,  but  to  the  function  which  they  hap- 


66  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

pen  to  have  in  our  experience.  Smell  and  taste, 
like  hearing,  have  the  great  disadvantage  of  not 
being  intrinsically  spatial:  they  are  therefore  not 
fitted  to  serve  for  the  representation  of  nature, 
which  allows  herself  to  be  accurately  conceived 
only  in  spatial  terms. ^  They  have  not  reached, 
moreover,  the  same  organization  as  sounds,  and 
therefore  cannot  furnish  any  play  of  subjective 
sensation  comparable  to  music  in  interest. 

The  objectification  of  musical  forms  is  due  to 
their  fixity  and  complexity:  like  words,  they  are 
thought  of  as  existing  in  a  social  medium,  and  can 
be  beautiful  without  being  spatial.  But  tastes 
have  never  been  so  accurately  or  universally 
classified  and  distinguished;  the  instrument  of 
sensation  does  not  allow  such  nice  and  stable 
discriminations  as  does  the  ear.  The  art  of  com- 
bining dishes  and  wines,  although  one  which 
everybody  practises  with  more  or  less  skill  and 
attention,  deals  with  a  material  far  too  unrepre- 
sentable to  be  called  beautiful.  The  art  remains 
in  the  sphere  of  the  pleasant,  and  is  consequently 
regarded  as  servile,  rather  than  fine. 

Artists  in  life,  if  that  expression  may  be  used 
for  those  who  have  beautified  social  and  domestic 
existence,  have  appealed  continually  to  these  lower 
senses.     A  fragrant  garden,   and   savoury  meats, 

1  This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  meta- 
physical value  of  the  idea  of  space.  Suffice  it  to  point  out  that 
in  human  experience  serviceable  knowledge  of  our  environment 
is  to  be  had  only  in  spatial  symbols,  and,  for  whatever  reason 
or  accident,  this  is  the  language  which  the  mind  must  speak  if 
it  is  to  advance  in  clearness  and  efficiency. 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  67 

incense,  and  perfumes,  soft  stuffs,  and  delicious 
colours,  form  our  ideal  of  oriental  luxuries,  an 
ideal  wliich  appeals  too  much  to  human  nature 
ever  to  lose  its  charm.  Yet  our  northern  poets 
have  seldom  attempted  to  arouse  these  images  in 
their  sensuous  intensity,  without  relieving  them 
by  some  imaginative  touch.  In  Keats,  for  ex- 
ample, we  find  the  following  lines :  — 

And  still  she  slept  in  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavendered. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd, 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

Even  the  most  sensuous  of  English  poets,  in 
whom  the  love  of  beauty  is  supreme,  cannot  keep 
long  to  the  primal  elements  of  beauty;  the  higher 
flight  is  inevitable  for  him.  And  how  much  does 
not  the  appeal  to  things  in  argosy  transferred 
from  Fez,  reinforced  with  the  reference  to  Sam- 
arcand and  especially  to  the  authorized  beauties 
of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  which  even  the  Puritan 
may  sing  without  a  blush,  add  to  our  wavering 
satisfaction  and  reconcile  our  conscience  to  this 
unchristian  indulgence  of  sense! 

But  the  time  may  be  near  when  such  scruples 
will  be  less  common,  and  our  poetry,  with  our 
other  arts,  will  dwell  nearer  to  the  fountain-head 
of  all  inspiration.     For   if  nothing  not   once   in 


68  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

sense  is  to  be  found  in  the  intellect,  much  less  is 
such  a  thing  to  be  found  in  the  imagination.  If 
the  cedars  of  Lebanon  did  not  spread  a  grateful 
shade,  or  the  winds  rustle  through  the  maze  of 
their  branches,  if  Lebanon  had  never  been  beauti- 
ful to  sense,  it  would  not  now  be  a  fit  or  poetic 
subject  of  allusion.  And  the  word  "  Fez ''  would 
be  without  imaginative  value  if  no  traveller  had 
ever  felt  the  intoxication  of  the  torrid  sun,  the 
languors  of  oriental  luxury,  or,  like  the  British 
soldier,  cried  amid  the  dreary  moralities  of  his 
native  land:  — 

Take  me  somewhere  east  of  Suez 

Where  the  best  is  like  the  worst, 
Where  tliere  ain't  no  ten  commandments 

And  a  man  may  raise  a  thirst. 

Nor  would  Samarcand  be  anything  but  for  the 
mystery  of  the  desert  and  the  picturesqueness 
of  caravans,  nor  would  an  argosy  be  poetic  if 
the  sea  had  no  voices  and  no  foam,  the  winds 
and  oars  no  resistance,  and  the  rudder  and  taut 
sheets  no  pull.  From  these  real  sensations  imagi- 
nation draws  its  life,  and  suggestion  its  power. 
The  sweep  of  the  fancy  is  itself  also  agreeable; 
but  the  superiority  of  the  distant  over  the  pres- 
ent is  only  due  to  the  mass  and  variety  of  the 
pleasures  that  can  be  suggested,  compared  with 
the  poverty  of  those  that  can  at  any  time  be  felt. 


Sound.  §  16.    Sound  shares  with   the   lower 

senses   the    disadvantage    of    having   no    intrinsic 
spatial  character;  it,  therefore,  forms  no  part  of 


THE  MATERIALS   OF  BEAUTY  69 

the  properly  abstracted  external  world,  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  ear  cannot  become,  in  the  literal 
sense,  qualities  of  things.  But  there  is  in  sounds 
such  an  exquisite  and  continuous  gradation  in 
pitch,  and  such  a  measurable  relation  in  length, 
that  an  object  almost  as  complex  and  describable 
as  the  visible  one  can  be  built  out  of  them. 
What  gives  spatial  forms  their  value  in  descrip- 
tion of  the  environment  is  the  ease  with  which 
discriminations  and  comparisons  can  be  made  in 
spatial  objects:  they  are  measurable,  while  un- 
spatial  sensations  commonly  are  not.  But  sounds 
are  also  measurable  in  their  own  category:  they 
have  comparable  pitches  and  durations,  and  defi- 
nite and  recognizable  combinations  of  those  sensu- 
ous elements  are  as  truly  objects  as  chairs  and 
tables.  Not  that  a  musical  composition  exists 
in  any  mystical  way,  as  a  portion  of  the  music 
of  the  spheres,  which  no  one  is  hearing;  but 
that,  for  a  critical  philosophy,  visible  objects  are 
also  nothing  but  possibilities  of  sensation.  The 
real  world  is  merely  the  shadow  of  that  assurance 
of  eventual  experience  which  accompanies  sanity. 
This  objectivity  can  accrue  to  any  mental  figment 
that  has  enough  cohesion,  content,  and  indi- 
viduality to  be  describable  and  recognizable,  and 
these  qualities  belong  no  less  to  audible  than  to 
spatia.1  ideas. 

There  is,  accordingly,  some  justification  in 
Schopenhauer's  speculative  assertion  that  music 
repeats  the  entire  world  of  sense,  and  is  a  paral- 
lel method  of  expression  of  the  underlying  sub- 


70  THE  SENSE  OF   BEAUTY 

stance,  or  will.  The  world  of  sound  is  certainly 
capable  of  infinite  variety  and,  were  our  sense 
developed,  of  infinite  extensions;  and  it  has  as 
much  as  the  world  of  matter  the  power  to  interest 
us  and  to  stir  our  emotions.  It  was  therefore 
potentially  as  full  of  meaning.  But  it  has  proved 
the  less  serviceable  and  constant  apparition;  and, 
therefore,  music,  which  builds  with  its  materials, 
while  the  purest  and  most  impressive  of  the  arts, 
is  the  least  human  and  instructive  of  them. 

The  pleasantness  of  sounds  has  a  simple  physical 
basis.  All  sensations  are  pleasant  only  between 
certain  limits  of  intensity;  but  the  ear  can  dis- 
criminate easily  between  noises,  that  in  themselves 
are  uninteresting,  if  not  annoying,  and  notes, 
which  have  an  unmistakable  charm.  A  sound  is 
a  note  if  the  pulsations  of  the  air  by  which  it 
is  produced  recur  at  regular  intervals.  If  there 
is  no  regular  recurrence  of  waves,  it  is  a  noise. 
The  rapidity  of  these  regular  beats  determines  the 
pitch  of  tones.  That  quality  or  timbre  by  which 
one  sound  is  distinguished  from  another  of  the 
same  pitch  and  intensity  is  due  to  the  different 
complications  of  waves  in  the  air;  the  ability  to 
discriminate  the  various  waves  in  the  vibrating  air 
is,  therefore,  the  condition  of  our  finding  music 
in  it;  for  every  wave  has  its  period,  and  what  we 
call  a  noise  is  a  complication  of  notes  too  com- 
plex for  our  organs  or  our  attention  to  decipher. 

We  find  here,  at  the  very  threshold  of  our  sub- 
ject, a  clear  instance  of  a  conflict  of  principles 
which   appears   everywhere   in   aesthetics,   and  is 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  71 

the  source  and  explanation  of  many  conflicts  of 
taste.  Since  a  note  is  heard  when  a  set  of  regu- 
lar vibrations  can  be  discriminated  in  the  chaos 
of  sound,  it  appears  that  the  perception  and  value 
of  this  artistic  element  depends  on  abstraction, 
on  the  omission  from  the  field  of  attention,  of 
all  the  elements  which  do  not  conform  to  a  sim- 
ple law.  This  may  be  called  the  principle  of 
purity.  But  if  it  were  the  only  principle  at 
work,  there  would  be  no  music  more  beautiful 
than  the  tone  of  a  tuning-fork.  Sucli  sounds, 
although  delightful  perhaps  to  a  child,  are  soon 
tedious.  The  principle  of  purity  must  make  some 
compromise  with  another  principle,  which  we  may 
call  that  of  interest.  The  object  must  have 
enough  variety  and  expression  to  hold  our  atten- 
tion for  a  while,  and  to  stir  our  nature  widely. 

As  we  are  more  acutely  sensitive  to  results  or 
to  processes,  we  find  the  most  agreeable  efPect 
nearer  to  one  or  to  the  other  of  these  extremes 
of  a  tedious  beauty  or  of  an  unbeautiful  expres- 
siveness. But  these  principles,  as  is  clear,  are 
not  co-ordinate.  The  child  who  enjoys  his  rattle 
or  his  trumpet  has  aesthetic  enjoyment,  of  how- 
ever rude  a  kind;  but  the  master  of  technique 
who  should  give  a  performance  wholly  without 
sensuous  charm  would  be  a  gymnast  and  not  a 
musician,  and  the  author  whose  novels  and  poems 
should  be  merely  expressive,  and  interesting  only 
by  their  meaning  and  moral,  would  be  a  writer 
of  history  or  philosophy,  but  not  an  artist.  The 
principle    of    purity    is    therefore    essential    to 


72  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

aesthetic  effect,  but  the  principle  of  interest  is 
subsidiary,  and  if  appealed  to  alone  would  fail 
to  produce  beauty. 

The  distinction,  however,  is  not  absolute :  for  the 
simple  sensation  is  itself  interesting,  and  the  com- 
plication, if  it  is  appreciable  by  sense  and  does 
not  require  discursive  thought  to  grasp  it,  is  itself 
beautiful.  There  may  be  a  work  of  art  in  which 
the  sensuous  materials  are  not  pleasing,  as  a  dis- 
course without  euphony,  if  the  structure  and 
expression  give  delight;  and  there  may  be  an 
interesting  object  without  perceived  structure,  like 
musical  notes,  or  the  blue  sky.  Perfection  vv^ould, 
of  course,  lie  in  the  union  of  elements  all  intrin- 
sically beautiful,  in  forms  also  intrinsically  so; 
but  where  this  is  impossible,  different  natures 
prefer  to  sacrifice  one  or  the  other  advantage. 

Colour.  §  17.    In   the  eye  we  have  an  organ 

so  differentiated  that  it  is  sensitive  to  a  much 
more  subtle  influence  than  even  that  of  air  waves. 
There  seems  to  be,  in  the  interstellar  spaces,  some 
pervasive  fluid,  for  the  light  of  the  remotest  star 
is  rapidly  conveyed  to  us,  and  we  can  hardly 
understand  how  this  radiation  of  light,  which 
takes  place  beyond  our  atmosphere,  could  be  real- 
ized without  some  medium.  This  hypothetical 
medium  we  call  the  ether.  It  is  capable  of  very 
rapid  vibrations,  which  are  propagated  in  all 
directions,  like  the  waves  of  sound,  only  much 
more  quickly.  Many  common  observations,  such 
as  the  apparent   interval   between  lightning  and 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  73 

tliunder,  make  us  aware  of  the  quicker  motion  of 
light.  Now,  since  nature  was  filled  with  this 
responsive  fluid,  which  propagated  to  all  distances 
vibrations  originating  at  any  point,  and  moreover 
as  these  vibrations,  when  intercepted  by  a  solid 
body,  were  reflected  wholly  or  in  part,  it  obvi- 
ously became  very  advantageous  to  every  animal 
to  develope  an  organ  sensitive  to  these  vibrations 
—  sensitive,  that  is,  to  light.  For  this  would 
give  the  mind  instantaneous  impressions  depend- 
ent upon  the  presence  and  nature  of  distant 
objects. 

To  this  circumstance  we  must  attribute  the 
primacy  of  sight  in  our  perception,  a  primacy 
that  makes  light  the  natural  symbol  of  knowl- 
edge. When  the  time  came  for  our  iDtelligence 
to  take  the  great  metaphysical  leap,  and  conceive 
its  content  as  i)ermanent  and  independent,  or,  in 
other  words,  to  imagine  things,  the  idea  of  these 
tilings  had  to  be  constructed  out  of  the  materials 
already  present  to  the  mind.  But  the  fittest 
material  for  such  construction  was  that  furnished 
by  the  eye,  since  it  is  the  eye  that  brings  us  into 
widest  relations  with  our  actual  environment,  and 
gives  us  the  quickest  warning  of  approaching 
impressions.  Sight  has  a  prophetic  function. 
We  are  less  interested  in  it  for  itself  than  for 
the  suggestion  it  brings  of  what  may  follow  after. 
Sight  is  a  method  of  presenting  psychically  what 
is  practically  absent;  and  as  the  essence  of  the 
thing  is  its  existence  in  our  absence,  the  thing  is 
spontaneously  conceived  in  terms  of  sight. 


74  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

Siglit  iSj  therefore,  -pevce-ption 2)ar  excellence,  since 
we  become  most  easily  aware  of  objects  through 
visual  agency  and  in  visual  terms.  Now,  as  the 
values  of  perception  are  those  we  call  aesthetic, 
and  there  could  be  no  beauty  if  there  was  no 
conception  of  independent  objects,  we  may  expect 
to  find  beauty  derived  mainly  from  the  pleasures 
of  sight.  And,  in  fact,  form,  which  is  almost  a 
synonym  of  beauty,  is  for  us  usually  something 
visible :  it  is  a  synthesis  of  the  seen.  But  prior 
to  the  effect  of  form,  which  arises  in  the  con- 
structive imagination,  comes  the  effect  of  colour; 
this  is  purely  sensuous,  and  no  better  intrinsically 
than  the  effects  of  any  other  sense:  but  being 
more  involved  in  the  perception  of  objects  than 
are  the  rest,  it  becomes  more  readily  an  element 
of  beauty. 

The  values  of  colours  differ  appreciably  and 
have  analogy  to  the  differing  values  of  other  sen- 
sations. As  sweet  or  pungent  smells,  as  high  and 
low  notes,  or  major  and  minor  chords,  differ  from 
each  other  by  virtue  of  their  different  stimulation 
of  the  senses,  so  also  red  differs  from  green,  and 
green  from  violet.  There  is  a  nervous  process 
for  each,  and  consequently  a  specific  value.  This 
emotional  quality  has  affinity  to  the  emotional 
quality  of  other  sensations;  we  need  not  be  sur- 
prised that  the  high  rate  of  vibration  which 
yields  a  sharp  note  to  the  ear  should  involve 
somewhat  the  same  feeling  that  is  produced  by 
the  high  rate  of  vibration  v/hich,  to  the  eye, 
yields   a  violet   colour.      These    affinities    escape 


THE  MATERIALS   OF  BEAUTY  75 

many  minds;  but  it  is  conceivable  that  the  sense 
of  them  should  be  improved  by  accident  or  train- 
ing. There  are  certain  effects  of  colour  which 
give  all  men  pleasure,  and  others  which  jar,  almost 
like  a  musical  discord.  A  more  general  develop- 
ment of  this  sensibility  would  make  possible  a 
new  abstract  art,  an  art  that  should  deal  with 
colours  as  music  does  with  sound. 

We  have   not   studied    these    effects,    however, 
with  enough  attention,  we  have  not  allowed  them 
to  penetrate  enough  into  the  soul,  to  think  them 
very   significant.     The    stimulation   of  fireworks, 
or  of  kaleidoscopic   effects,    seems   to  us  trivial! 
But  everything  which  has  a  varied  content  has  a 
potentiality  of  form  and  also  of  meaning.     The 
form  will  be  enjoyed  as  soon  as  attention  accus- 
toms us  to  discriminate  and  recognize  its  varia- 
tions;  and  meaning  will  accrue  to  it,  when  the 
various^  emotional  values  of  these  forms  ally  the 
new  object  to  all  other  experiences  which  involve 
similar  emotions,  and  thus  give  it  a  sympathetic 
environment  in  the   mind.      The   colours   of   the 
sunset  have  a  brilliancy  that  attracts  attention,  and 
a  softness  and  illusiveness  that  enchant  the  eye; 
while  the  many  associations  of  the  evening  and 
of  heaven  gather  about  this  kindred  charm  and 
deepen  it.     Thus  the  most  sensuous  of  beauties 
can  be  full  of  sentimental  suggestion.     In  stained 
glass,  also,  we   have   an   example    of    masses   of 
colour  made  to  exert  their  powerful  direct  influ- 
ence,   to   intensify  an   emotion   eventually  to    be 
attached  to  very  ideal  objects;   wliat  is  in  itself 


76  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

a  gorgeous  and  unmeaning  ornament,  by  its  abso- 
lute impressiveness  becomes  a  vivid  symbol  of 
those  other  ultimates  which  have  a  similar  power 
over  the  soul. 

Materials  §  18.   We  liave  now  gone  over  those 

surveyed. 

organs  of  perception  that  give  us  the 
materials  out  of  which  we  construct  objects,  and 
mentioned  the  most  conspicuous  pleasures  which, 
as  they  arise  from  those  organs,  are  easily  merged 
in  the  ideas  furnished  by  the  same.  We  have 
also  noticed  that  these  ideas,  conspicuous  as  they 
are  in  our  developed  and  operating  consciousness, 
are  not  so  much  factors  in  our  thought,  inde- 
pendent contributors  to  it,  as  they  are  discrimi- 
nations and  excisions  in  its  content,  which,  after 
they  are  all  made,  leave  still  a  background  of 
vital  feeling.  For  the  outer  senses  are  but  a 
portion  of  our  sensorium,  and  the  ideas  of  each, 
or  of  all  together,  but  a  portion  of  our  conscious- 
ness. 

The  pleasures  which  accompany  ideation  we 
have  also  found  to  be  unitary  and  vital;  only 
just  as  for  practical  purposes  it  is  necessary  to 
abstract  and  discriminate  the  contribution  of  one 
sense  from  that  of  another,  and  thus  to  become 
aware  of  particular  and  definable  impressions, 
so  it  is  natural  that  the  diffused  emotional  tone 
of  the  body  should  also  be  divided,  and  a  certain 
modicum  of  pleasure  or  pain  should  be  attributed 
to  each  idea.  Our  pleasures  are  thus  described 
as  the  pleasures  of  touch,  taste,  smell,  hearing, 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  77 

and  sight,  and  may  become  elements  of  beauty  at 
the  same  time  as  the  ideas  to  which  they  are 
attached  become  elements  of  objects.  There  is 
however,  a  remainder  of  emotion  as  there  is  a 
remainder  of  sensation;  and  the  importance  of 
this  remainder  — of  the  continuum  in  which  lie 
all  particular  pleasures  and  pains  — was  insisted 
upon  in  the  beginning. 

The  beauty  of  the  world,  indeed,  cannot  be 
attributed  wholly  or  mainly  to  pleasures  thus 
attached  to  abstracted  sensations.  It  is  only  the 
beauty  of  the  materials  of  things  which  is  drawn 
from  the  pleasures  of  sensation.  By  far  the  most 
important  effects  are  not  attributable  to  these 
materials,  but  to  their  arrangement  and  their 
ideal  relations.  We  have  yet  to  study  those  proc- 
esses of  our  mind  by  which  this  arrangement 
and  these  relations  are  conceived;  and  the  pleas- 
ures which  we  can  attach  to  these  processes  may 
then  be  added  to  the  pleasures  attached  to  sense 
as  further  and  more  subtle  elements  of  beauty. 

But  before  passing  to  the  consideration  of  this 
more  intricate  subject,  we  may  note  that  however 
subordinate  the  beauty  may  be  which  a  garment, 
a  building,  or  a  poem  derives  from  its  sensuous 
material,  yet  the  presence  of  this  sensuous  mate- 
rial is  indispensable.  Form  cannot  be  the  form 
of  nothing.  If,  then,  in  finding  or  creating 
beauty,  we  ignore  the  materials  of  things,  and 
attend  only  to  their  form,  we  miss  an  ever-pres- 
ent opportunity  to  heighten  our  effects.  For 
whatever  delight  the  form  may  bring,  the  material 


78  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

might  have  given  delight  already,  and  so  much 
would  have  been  gained  towards  the  value  of  the 
total  result. 

Sensuous  beauty  is  not  the  greatest  or  most 
important  element  of  effect,  but  it  is  the  most 
primitive  and  fundamental,  and  the  most  uni- 
versal. There  is  no  effect  of  form  which  an 
effect  of  material  could  not  enhance,  and  this 
effect  of  material,  underlying  that  of  form,  raises 
the  latter  to  a  higher  power  and  gives  the  beauty 
of  the  object  a  certain  poignancy,  thoroughness, 
and  infinity  which  it  otherwise  would  have 
lacked.  The  Parthenon  not  in  marble,  the  king^s 
crown  not  of  gold,  and  the  stars  not  of  fire, 
would  be  feeble  and  prosaic  things.  The  greater 
hold  which  material  beauty  has  upon  the  senses, 
stimulates  us  here,  where  the  form  is  also  sublime, 
and  lifts  and  intensifies  our  emotions.  Yve  need 
this  stimulus  if  our  perceptions  are  to  reach  the 
highest  pitch  of  strength  and  acuteness.  Nothing 
can  be  ravishing  that  is  not  beautiful  pervasively. 

And  another  point.  The  wider  diffusion  of  sen- 
suous beauty  makes  it  as  it  were  the  poor  man's 
good.  Fewer  factors  are  needed  to  produce  it  and 
less  training  to  appreciate  it.  The  senses  are  in- 
dispensable instruments  of  labour,  developed  by 
the  necessities  of  life;  but  their  perfect  develop- 
ment produces  a  harmony  between  the  inward 
structure  and  instinct  of  the  organ  and  the  out- 
ward opportunities  for  its  use;  and  this  harmony 
is  the  source  of  continual  pleasures.  In  the  sphere 
of  sense,  therefore,  a  certain  cultivation  is  inev- 


THE  MATERIALS   OF  BEAUTY  79 

itable  in  man;  often  greater,  indeed,  among  rude 
peoples,  perhaps  among  animals,  than  among 
those  whose  attention  takes  a  wider  sweep  and 
whose  ideas  are  more  abstract.  Without  requir- 
ing, therefore,  that  a  man  should  rise  above  his 
station,  or  develope  capacities  which  his  oppor- 
tunities will  seldom  employ,  we  may  yet  endow 
his  life  with  aBsthetic  interest,  if  we  allow  him 
the  enjoyment  of  sensuous  beauty.  This  enriches 
him  without  adding  to  his  labour,  and  flatters  him 
without  alienating  him  from  his  world. 

Taste,  when  it  is  spontaneous,  always  begins 
with  the  senses.  Children  and  savages,  as  we 
are  so  often  told,  delight  in  bright  and  variegated 
colours;  the  simplest  people  appreciate  the  neat- 
ness of  muslin  curtains,  shining  varnish,  and 
burnished  pots.  A  rustic  garden  is  a  shallow 
patchwork  of  the  liveliest  floAvers,  without  that 
reserve  and  repose  which  is  given  by  spaces  and 
masses.  Noise  and  vivacity  is  all  that  childish 
music  contains,  and  primitive  songs  add  little 
more  of  form  than  what  is  required  to  compose 
a  few  monotonous  cadences.  These  limitations 
are  not  to  be  regretted;  they  are  a  proof  of  sin- 
cerity. Such  simplicity  is  not  the  absence  of 
taste,  but  the  beginning  of   it. 

A  people  with  genuine  aesthetic  perceptions 
creates  traditional  forms  and  expresses  the  simple 
pathos  of  its  life,  in  unchanging  but  significant 
themes,  repeated  by  generation  after  generation. 
When  sincerity  is  lost,  and  a  snobbish  ambition 
is  substituted,  bad  -taste  comes  in.     The  essence 


80  THE  SEXSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  it  is  a  substitution  of  non-oesthetic  for  ses- 
thetic  values.  To  love  glass  beads  because  they  are 
beautiful  is  barbarous,  perhaps,  but  not  vulgar ;  to 
love  jewels  only  because  they  are  dear  is  vulgar, 
and  to  betray  the  motive  by  placing  them  ineffec- 
tively is  an  offence  against  taste.  The  test  is 
always  the  same:  Does  the  thing  itself  actually 
please?  If  it  does,  your  taste  is  real;  it  may  be 
different  from  that  of  others,  but  is  equally  jus- 
tified and  grounded  in  human  nature.  If  it  does 
not,  your  whole  judgment  is  spurious,  and  you  are 
guilty,  not  of  heresy,  which  in  aesthetics  is  ortho- 
doxy itself,  but  of  hypocrisy,  which  is  a  self- 
excommunication  from  its  sphere. 

Now,  a  great  sign  of  this  hypocrisy  is  insensi- 
bility to  sensuous  beauty.  When  people  show 
themselves  indifferent  to  primary  and  funda- 
mental effects,  when  they  are  incapable  of  finding 
pictures  except  in  frames  or  beauties  except  in 
the  great  masters,  we  may  justly  suspect  that 
they  are  parrots,  and  that  their  verbal  and  his- 
torical knowledge  covers  a  natural  lack  of  aesthetic 
sense.  Where,  on  the  contrary,  insensibility  to 
higher  forms  of  beauty  does  not  exclude  a  natural 
love  of  the  lower,  we  have  every  reason  to  be 
encouraged;  there  is  a  true  and  healthy  taste, 
which  only  needs  experience  to  refine  it.  If  a 
man  demands  light,  sound,  and  splendour,  he 
proves  that  he  has  the  aesthetic  equilibrium;  that 
appearances  as  such  interest  him,  and  that  he 
can  pause  in  perception  to  enjoy.  We  have  but 
to  vary  his  observation,  to  enlarge  his  thought. 


THE  MATERIALS  OF  BEAUTY  81 

to  multiply  liis  discriminations  —  all  of  which 
education  can  do  —  and  the  same  aesthetic  habit 
will  reveal  to  him  every  shade  of  the  fit  and 
fair.  Or  if  it  should  not,  and  the  man,  although 
sensuously  gifted,  proved  to  be  imaginatively 
dull,  at  least  he  would  not  have  failed  to  catch 
an  intimate  and  wide-spread  element  of  effect. 
The  beauty  of  material  is  thus  the  groundwork 
of  all  higher  beauty,  both  in  the  object,  whose 
form  and  meaning  have  to  be  lodged  in  some- 
thing sensible,  and  in  the  mind,  where  sensuous 
ideas,  being  the  first  to  emerge,  are  the  first 
that  can  arouse  delight. 


PART  III 
FOEM 

There  is  a  §  iQ.   The  most  remarkable  and  char- 

beauty  of  .      .  n  i        •         ■        i 

form.  acteristic  problem  of  sestlietics  is  that 

of  beauty  of  form.  Where  there  is  a 
sensuous  deliglit,  like  that  of  colour,  and  the 
impression  of  the  object  is  in  its  elements  agree- 
able, we  have  to  look  no  farther  for  an  explana- 
tion of  the  charm  we  feel.  Where  there  is 
expression,  and  an  object  indifferent  to  the 
senses  is  associated  with  other  ideas  which  are 
interesting,  the  problem,  although  complex  and 
varied,  is  in  principle  comparatively  plain.  But 
there  is  an  intermediate  effect  which  is  more 
mysterious,  and  more  specifically  an  effect  of 
beauty.  It  is  found  where  sensible  elements, 
by  themselves  indifferent,  are  so  united  as  to 
please  in  combination.  There  is  something  unex- 
pected in  this  phenomenon,  so  much  so  that  those 
Yv^ho  cannot  conceive  its  explanation  often  reassure 
themselves  by  denying  its  existence.  To  reduce 
beauty  of  form,  however,  to  beauty  of  elements 
would  not  be  easy,  because  the  creation  and  varia- 
tion of  effect,  by  changing  the  relation  of  the 
simplest  lines,  offers  too  easy  an  experiment  in 
reputation.  And  it  would,  moreover,  follow  to 
82 


FOKM  83 

the  comfort  of  tlie  vulgar  that  all  marble  houses 
are  equally  beautiful. 

To  attribute  beauty  of  form  to  expression 
is  more  plausible.     If  I  take  the  meaning-     — 
less   short  lines  in  the  figure  and  arrange    ^ 

them  in  the  given  ways,  intended  to  repre-     ^ 

sent  the  human  face,  there  appear  at  once 
notably  different   aes- 
thetic  values.       Two        i  / 


of     the     forms     are        |  /  /^ 

differently    grotesque        7^  /^  ^ 

and  one  approximately    /  \--         X 

beautiful.    Now  these     "^  1 'j 

effects  are  due  to  the        N^  \  \^ 

expression  of  the  ^ 

lines;  not  only  because  they  make  one  think  of 
fair  or  ugly  faces,  but  because,  it  may  be  said, 
these  faces  would  in  reality  be  fair  or  ugly, 
according  to  their  expression,  according  to  the 
vital  and  moral  associations  of  the  different  types. 
Nevertheless,  beauty  of  form  cannot  be  reduced 
to  expression  without  denying  the  existence  of 
immediate  sesthetic  values  altogether,  and  reduc- 
ing them  all  to  suggestions  of  moral  good.  For 
if  the  object  expressed  by  the  form,  and  from 
which  tlie  form  derives  its  value,  had  itself 
beauty  of  form,  we  should  not  advance ;  we  must 
come  somewhere  to  the  point  where  the  expres- 
sion is  of  something  else  than  beauty;  and  this 
something  else  would  of  course  be  some  practical 
or  moral  good.  Moralists  are  fond  of  such  an 
interpretation,  and  it  is  a  very  interesting  one. 
It  puts  beauty  in  the  same  relation  to  morals  in 


84  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

which  morals  stand  to  pleasure  and  pain;  both 
would  be  intuitions,  qualitatively  new,  but  with 
the  same  materials;  they  would  be  new  perspec- 
tives of  the  same  object. 

But  this  theory  is  actually  inadmissible.  In- 
numerable aesthetic  effects,  indeed  all  specific  and 
unmixed  ones,  are  direct  transmutations  of  pleas- 
ures and  pains ;  they  express  nothing  extrinsic  to 
themselves,  much  less  moral  excellences.  The 
detached  lines  of  our  figure  signify  nothing,  but 
they  are  not  absolutely  uninteresting;  the  straight 
line  is  the  simplest  and  not  the  least  beautiful  of 
forms.  To  say  that  it  owes  its  interest  to  the 
thought  of  the  economy  of  travelling  over  the 
shortest  road,  or  of  other  practical  advantages, 
would  betray  a  feeble  hold  on  psychological  reality. 
The  impression  of  a  straight  line  differs  in  a  cer- 
tain almost  emotional  way  from  that  of  a  curve, 
as  those  of  various  curves  do  from  one  another. 
The  quality  of  the  sensation  is  different,  like 
that  of  various  colours  or  sounds.  To  attribute 
the  character  of  these  forms  to  association  would 
be  like  explaining  sea-sickness  as  the  fear  of 
shipwreck.  There  is  a  distinct  quality  and  value, 
often  a  singular  beauty,  in  these  simple  lines  that 
is  intrinsic  in  the  perception  of  their  form. 

It  would  be  pedantic,  perhaps,  anywhere  but 
in  a  treatise  on  esthetics,  to  deny  to  this  quality 
the  name  of  expression;  we  might  commonly  say 
that  the  circle  has  one  expression  and  the  oval 
another.  But  what  does  the  circle  express  except 
circularity,  or  the  oval  except  the  nature  of  the 


FORM  85 

ellipse?  Such  expression  expresses  nothing;  it 
is  really  impression.  There  may  be  analogy  be- 
tween it  and  other  impressions;  we  may  admit 
that  odours,  colours,  and  sounds  correspond,  and 
may  mutually  suggest  one  another;  but  this 
analogy  is  a  superadded  charm  felt  by  very  sensi- 
tive natures,  and  does  not  constitute  the  original 
value  of  the  sensations.  The  common  emotional 
tinge  is  rather  what  enables  them  to  suggest  one 
another,  and  what  makes  them  comparable.  Their 
expression,  such  as  it  is,  is  therefore  due  to  the 
accident  that  both  feelings  have  a  kindred  quality; 
and  this  quality  has  its  effectiveness  for  sense  in- 
dependently of  the  perception  of  its  recurrence 
in  a  different  sphere.  We  shall  accordingly  take 
care  to  reserve  the  term  "  expression  "  for  the  sug- 
gestion of  some  other  and  assignable  object,  from 
which  the  expressive  thing  borrows  an  interest; 
and  we  shall  speak  of  the  intrinsic  quality  of 
forms  as  their  emotional  tinge  or  specific  value. 

§  20.  The  charm  of  a  line  evidently  Physiology  of 
consists  in  the  relation  of  its  parts ;  in  offormT '"" 
order  to  understand  this  interest  in 
spatial  relations,  we  must  inquire  how  they  are 
perceived.^  If  the  eye  had  its  sensitive  surface, 
the  retina,  exposed  directly  to  the  light,  we  could 
never  have  a  perception  of  form  any  more  than 
in  the  nose  or  ear,  which  also  perceive  the  object 

1  The  discussion  is  limited  in  this  chapter  to  visible  form ; 
audible  form  is  probably  capable  of  a  parallel  treatment,  but 
requires  studies  too  technical  for  this  place. 


86 


THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 


\-- 


through  media.  When  the  perception  is  not 
through  a  medium,  but  direct,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  skin,  we  might  get  a  notion  of  form,  because 
each  point  of  the  object  would  excite  a  single 
point  in  the  skin,  and  as  the  sensations  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  skin  differ  in  quality,  a  mani- 
fold of  sense,  in  which  discrimination  of  parts 
would  be  involved,  could  be  presented  to  the 
mind.  But  when  the  perception  is  through  a 
medium,   a  difficulty  arises. 

Any  point,   a,   in  the  object  Avill  send  a  ray  to 
every  point,  a',  h\  c',  of  the  sensitive  surface;  every 

point  of  the  retina  will 
b'  therefore  be  similarly 
affected,  since  each  will 
receive  rays  from  every 
a!  part  of  the  object.  If 
all  the  rays  from  one 
point  of  the  object,  a, 

J    are  to  be  concentrated 
o 

on  a  corresponding 
point  of  the  retina,  a',  which  would  then  become  the 
exclusive  representative  of  a,  we  must  have  one  or 
more  refracting  surfaces  interposed,  to  gather  the 
rays  together.  The  presence  of  the  lens,  with  its 
various  coatings,  has  made  representation  of  point 
by  point  possible  for  the  eye.  The  absence  of  such 
an  instrument  makes  the  same  sort  of  representa- 
tion impossible  to  other  senses,  such  as  the  nose, 
which  does  not  smell  in  one  place  the  effluvia  of 
one  part  of  the  environment  and  in  another  place 
the  effluvia  of  another,  but  smells  indiscriminately 


17 


FORM  87 

the  combination  of  all.  Eyes  without  lenses  like 
those  possessed  by  some  animals,  undoubtedly  give 
only  a  consciousness  of  diffused  light,  without  the 
possibility  of  boundaries  or  divisions  in  the  field 
of  view.  The  abstraction  of  colour  from  form  is 
therefore  by  no  means  an  artificial  one,  since,  by 
a  simplification  of  the  organ  of  sense,  one  may  be 
perceived  without  the  other. 

But  even  if  the  lens  enables  the  eye  to  receive 
a  distributed  image  of  the  object,  the  manifold 
which  consciousness  would  perceive  would  not  be 
necessarily  a  manifold  of  parts  juxtaposed  in 
space.  Each  point  of  the  retina  might  send  to  the 
brain  a  detached  impression ;  these  might  be  com- 
parable, but  not  necessarily  in  their  spatial  posi- 
tion. The  ear  sends  to  the  brain  such  a  manifold 
of  impressions  (since  the  ear  also  has  an  apparatus 
by  which  various  external  differences  in  rapidity 
of  vibrations  are  distributed  into  different  parts  of 
the  organ).  But  this  discriminated  manifold  is  a 
manifold  of  pitches,  not  of  positions.  How  does 
it  happen  that  the  manifold  conveyed  by  the  optic 
nerve  appears  in  consciousness  as  spatial,  and  that 
the  relation  between  its  elements  is  seen  as  a  rela- 
tion of  position? 

An  answer  to  this  question  has  been  suggested 
by  various  psychologists.  The  eye,  by  an  instinc- 
tive movement,  turns  so  as  to  bring  every  impres- 
sion upon  that  point  of  the  retina,  near  its  centre, 
which  has  the  acutest  sensibility.  A  series  of 
muscular  sensations  therefore  always  follows  upon 
the  conspicuous  excitement  of  any  outlying  point. 


88  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

The  object,  as  the  eye  brings  it  to  the  centre  of 
vision,  excites  a  series  of  points  upon  the  retina; 
and  the  local  sign,  or  peculiar  quality  of  sensation, 
proper  to  each  of  these  spots,  is  associated  with 
that  series  of  muscular  feelings  involved  in  turn- 
ing the  eyes.  These  feelings  henceforth  revive 
together;  it  is  enough  that  a  point  in  the  periphery 
of  the  retina  should  receive  a  ray,  for  the  mind  to 
feel,  together  with  that  impression,  the  suggestion 
of  a  motion,  and  of  the  line  of  points  that  lies 
between  the  excited  point  and  the  centre  of  vision. 
A  network  of  associations  is  thus  formed,  whereby 
the  sensation  of  each  retinal  point  is  connected 
with  all  the  others  in  a  manner  which  is  that  of 
points  in  a  plane.  Every  visible  point  becomes 
thus  a  point  in  a  field,  and  has  a  felt  radiation  of 
lines  of  possible  motion  about  it.  Our  notion  of 
visual  space  has  this  origin,  since  the  manifold 
of  retinal  impressions  is  distributed  in  a  manner 
which  serves  as  the  type  and  exemplar  of  what  we 
mean  by  a  surface. 

Values  of  §  21.    The   reader  will  perhaps   par- 

geometrieal  7 

figures.  dou  thcse  dctails  and  the  strain  they 

put  on  his  attention,  when  he  per- 
ceives how  much  they  help  us  to  understand  the 
value  of  forms.  The  sense,  then,  of  the  position 
of  any  point  consists  in  the  tensions  in  the  eye, 
that  not  only  tends  to  bring  that  point  to  the 
centre  of  vision,  but  feels  the  suggestion  of  all 
the  other  points  which  are  related  to  the  given 
one  in  the  web  of  visual  experience.     The  defi- 


FORM  89 

nition  of  space  as  the  possibility  of  motion  is 
therefore  an  accurate  and  significant  one,  since 
the  most  direct  and  native  perception  of  space 
we  can  have  is  the  awakening  of  many  tenden- 
cies to  move  our  organs. 

For  example,  if  a  circle  is  presented,  the  eye 
will  fall  upon  its  centre,  as  to  the  centre  of  gravity, 
as  it  were,  of  the  balanced  attractions  of  all  the 
points ;  and  there  will  be,  in  that  position,  an  in- 
difference and  sameness  of  sensation,  in  whatever 
direction  some  accident  moves  the  eye,  that 
accounts  very  well  for  the  emotional  quality  of 
the  circle.  It  is  a  form  which,  although  beautiful 
in  its  purity  and  simplicity,  and  wonderful  in  its 
continuity,  lacks  any  stimulating  quality,  and  is 
often  ugly  in  the  arts,  especially  when  found  in 
vertical  surfaces  where  it  is  not  always  seen  in 
perspective.  For  horizontal  surfaces  it  is  better 
because  it  is  there  always  an  ellipse  to  vision,  and 
the  ellipse  has  a  less  dull  and  stupefying  effect. 
The  eye  can  move  easily,  organize  and  subordi- 
nate its  parts,  and  its  relations  to  the  environment 
are  not  similar  in  all  directions.  Small  circles, 
like  buttons,  are  not  in  the  same  danger  of 
becoming  ugly,  because  the  eye  considers  them  as 
points,  and  they  diversify  and  help  to  divide 
surfaces,  without  appearing  as  surfaces  them- 
selves. 

The  straight  line  offers  a  curious  object  for 
analysis.  It  is  not  for  the  eye  a  very  easy  form 
to  grasp.  We  bend  it  or  we  leave  it.  Unless  it 
passes   through  the  centre  of  vision,   it  is  obvi- 


90  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ously  a  tangent  to  the  points  which  have  analo- 
gous relations  to  that  centre.  The  local  signs 
or  tensions  of  the  points  in  such  a  tangent  vary 
in  an  unseizable  progression;  there  is  violence  in 
keeping  to  it,  and  the  effect  is  forced.  This  makes 
the  dry  and  stiff  quality  of  any  long  straight  line, 
which  the  skilful  Greeks  avoided  by  the  curves  of 
their  columns  and  entablatures,  and  the  less  eco- 
nomical barbarians  by  a  profusion  of  interruptions 
and  ornaments. 

The  straight  line,  when  made  the  direct  object 
of  attention,  is,  of  course,  followed  by  the  eye 
and  not  seen  by  the  outlying  parts  of  the  retina 
in  one  eccentric  position.  The  same  explanation 
is  good  for  this  more  common  case,  since  the 
consciousness  that  the  eye  travels  in  a  straight 
line  consists  in  the  surviving  sense  of  the  pre- 
vious position,  and  in  the  manner  in  Avhich  the 
tensions  of  these  various  positions  overlap.  If 
the  tensions  change  from  moment  to  moment 
entirely,  we  have  a  broken,  a  fragmentary  effect, 
as  that  of  zigzag,  where  all  is  dropping  and 
picking  up  again  of  associated  motions;  in  the 
straight  line,  much  prolonged,  we  have  a  grad- 
ual and  inexorable  rending  of  these  tendencies 
to  associated  movements. 

In  the  curves  we  call  flowing  and  graceful,  we 
have,  on  the  contrary,  a  more  natural  and  rhyth- 
mical set  of  movements  in  the  optic  muscles;  and 
certain  points  in  the  various  gyrations  make  rhymes 
and  assonances,  as  it  were,  to  the  eye  that  reaches 
them.     We  find  ourselves  at  every  turn  reawaken- 


FORM  91 

ing,  with  a  variation,  the  sense  of  the  previous 
position.  It  is  easy  to  understand  by  analogy 
with  the  superficially  observed  conditions  of  pleas- 
ure, that  such  rhythms  and  harmonies  should  be 
delightful.  The  deeper  question  of  the  physical 
basis  of  pleasure  we  have  not  intended  to  discuss. 
Suffice  it  that  measure,  in  quantity,  in  intensity, 
and  in  time,  must  involve  that  physiological  proc- 
ess, whatever  it  may  be,  the  consciousness  of 
which   is   pleasure. 

§  22.  An  important  exemplification  of  Symmetry. 
these  physiological  principles  is  found  in 
the  charm  of  symmetry.  When  for  any  reason  the 
eye  is  to  be  habitually  directed  to  a  single  point, 
as  to  the  opening  of  a  gate  or  window,  to  an  altar, 
a  throne,  a  stage,  or  a  fireplace,  there  will  be  vio- 
lence and  distraction  caused  by  the  tendency  to 
look  aside  in  the  recurring  necessity  of  looking 
forward,  if  the  object  is  not  so  arranged  that 
the  tensions  of  eye  are  balanced,  and  the  centre 
of  gravity  of  vision  lies  in  the  point  which  one  is 
obliged  to  keep  in  sight.  In  all  such  objects  we 
therefore  require  bilateral  symmetry.  The  neces- 
sity of  vertical  symmetry  is  not  felt  because  the 
eyes  and  head  do  not  so  readily  survey  objects 
from  top  to  bottom  as  from  side  to  side.  The 
inequality  of  the  upper  and  lower  parts  does  not 
generate  the  same  tendency  to  motion,  the  same 
restlessness,  as  does  the  inequality  of  the  right 
and  left  sides  of  an  object  in  front  of  us.  The 
comfort  and  economy  that  comes  from   muscular 


92  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

balance  in  the  eye,  is  therefore  in  some  cases  the 
source  of  the  value  of  symmetry.^ 

In  other  cases  symmetry  appeals  to  us  through 
the  charm  of  recognition  and  rhythm.  When  the 
eye  runs  over  a  facade,  and  finds  the  objects 
that  attract  it  at  equal  intervals,  an  expectation, 
like  the  anticipation  of  an  inevitable  note  or 
requisite  word,  arises  in  the  mind,  and  its  non- 
satisfaction  involves  a  shock.  This  shock,  if 
caused  by  the  emphatic  emergence  of  an  inter- 
esting object,  gives  the  effect  of  the  picturesque; 
but  when  it  comes  with  no  compensation,  it  gives 
us  the  feeling  of  ugliness  and  imperfection  —  the 
defect  which  symmetry  avoids.  This  kind  of 
symmetry  is  accordingly  in  itself  a  negative  merit, 
but  often  the  condition  of  the  greatest  of  all  merits, 
—  the  permanent  power  to  please.  It  contributes  to 
that  completeness  which  delights  without  stimulat- 
ing, and  to  which  our  jaded  senses  return  gladly, 
after  all  sorts  of  extravagances,  as  to  a  kind  of 
domestic  peace.  The  inwardness  and  solidity  of 
this  quiet  beauty  comes  from  the  intrinsic  char- 
acter of  the  pleasure  which  makes  it  up.  It  is  no 
adventitious  charm;  but  the  eye  in  its  continual 
passage  over  the  object  finds  always  the  same  re- 
sponse, the  same  adequacy;  and  the  very  process 
of  perception  is  made  delightful  by  the  object's 
fitness  to  be  perceived.  The  parts,  thus  coales- 
cing, form  a  single  object,  the  unity  and  simplicity 

1  The  relation  to  stability  also  makes  us  sensitive  to  certain 
kinds  of  symmetry;  but  this  is  an  adventitious  consideration 
with  which  we  are  not  concerned. 


FORM  93 

of  Yv^liich  are  based  upon  the  rhythm  and  corre- 
spondence of  its  elements. 

Symmetry  is  here  what  metaphysicians  call  a 
principle  of  individuation.  By  the  emphasis 
which  it  lays  upon  the  recurring  elements,  it  cuts 
up  the  field  into  determinate  units;  all  that  lies 
between  the  beats  is  one  interval,  one  individual. 
If  there  were  no  recurrent  impressions,  no  corre- 
sponding points,  the  field  of  perception  would 
remain  a  fluid  continuum,  without  defined  and 
recognizable  divisions.  The  outlines  of  most 
things  are  symmetrical  because  we  choose  what 
symmetrical  lines  we  find  to  be  the  boundaries 
of  objects.  Their  symmetry  is  the  condition  of 
their  unity,  and  their  unity  of  their  individuality 
and  separate  existence. 

Experience,  to  be  sure,  can  teach  us  to  regard 
unsymmetrical  objects  as  wholes,  because  their 
elements  move  and  change  together  in  nature ;  but 
this  is  a  principle  of  individuation,  a  posteriori, 
founded  on  the  association  of  recognized  elements. 
These  elements,  to  be  recognized  and  seen  to  go 
together  and  form  one  thing,  must  first  be  some- 
how discriminated;  and  the  symmetry,  either  of 
their  parts,  or  of  their  position  as  wholes,  may 
enable  us  to  fix  their  boundaries  and  to  observe 
their  number.  The  category  of  unity,  which  we 
are  so  constantly  imposing  upon  nature  and  its 
parts,  has  symmetry,  then,  for  one  of  its  instru- 
ments, for  one  of  its  bases  of  application. 

If  symmetry,  then,  is  a  principle  of  individ- 
uation  and   helps   us   to   distinguish   objects,  we 


94  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

cannot  wonder  that  it  helps  us  to  enjoy  the  per- 
ception. For  our  intelligence  loves  to  perceive; 
water  is  not  more  grateful  to  a  parched  throat 
than  a  principle  of  comprehension  to  a  confused 
understanding.  Symmetry  clarifies,  and  we  all 
know  that  light  is  sweet.  At  the  same  time,  we 
can  see  w^hy  there  are  limits  to  the  value  of  sym- 
metry. In  objects,  for  instance,  that  are  too 
small  or  too  diffused  for  composition,  symmetry 
has  no  value.  In  an  avenue  symmetry  is  stately 
and  impressive,  but  in  a  large  park,  or  in  the  plan 
of  a  city,  or  the  side  wall  of  a  gallery  it  produces 
monotony  in  the  various  views  rather  than  unity 
in  any  one  of  them.  Greek  temples,  never  being 
very  large,  were  symmetrical  on  all  their  facades; 
Gothic  churches  were  generally  designed  to  be  sym- 
metrical only  in  the  west  front,  and  in  the  tran- 
septs, while  the  side  elevation  as  a  whole  was 
eccentric.  This  was  probably  an  accident,  due  to 
the  demands  of  the  interior  arrangement;  but  it 
was  a  fortunate  one,  as  we  may  see  by  contrasting 
its  effect  with  that  of  our  stations,  exhibition 
buildings,  and  other  vast  structures,  where  sjm- 
metry  is  generally  introduced  even  in  the  most 
extensive  facades  which,  being  too  much  prolonged 
for  their  height,  cannot  be  treated  as  units.  The 
eye  is  not  able  to  take  them  in  at  a  glance,  and 
does  not  get  the  effect  of  repose  from  the  balance 
of  the  extremes,  while  the  mechanical  sameness  of 
the  sections,  surveyed  in  succession,  makes  the 
impression  of  an  unmeaning  poverty  of  resource. 
Symmetry  thus  loses  its  value  when  it  cannot, 


FORM  95 

on  account  of  the  size  of  the  object,  contribute  to 
the  unity  of  our  perception.  The  synthesis  which 
it  facilitates  must  be  instantaneous.  If  the  com- 
prehension by  which  we  unify  our  object  is  discur- 
sive, as,  for  instance,  in  conceiving  the  arrangement 
and  numbering  of  the  streets  of  Kew  York,  or  the 
plan  of  the  Escurial,  the  advantage  of  symmetry  is 
an  intellectual  one ;  we  can  better  imagine  the  rela- 
tions of  the  parts,  and  draw  a  map  of  the  whole  in 
the  fancy;  but  there  is  no  advantage  to  direct  per- 
ception, and  therefore  no  added  beauty.  Sym- 
metry is  superfluous  in  those  objects.  Similarly 
animal  and  vegetable  forms  gain  nothing  by  being 
symmetrically  displayed,  if  the  sense  of  their  life 
and  motion  is  to  be  given.  When,  however,  these 
forms  are  used  for  mere  decoration,  not  for  the 
expression  of  their  own  vitality,  then  symmetry  is 
again  required  to  accentuate  their  unity  and  organ- 
ization. This  justifies  the  habit  of  convention- 
alizing natural  forms,  and  the  tendency  of  some 
kinds  of  hieratic  art,  like  the  Byzantine  or  Egyp- 
tian, to  affect  a  rigid  symmetry  of  posture.  We 
can  thereby  increase  the  unity  and  force  of  the 
image  without  suggesting  that  individual  life  and 
mobility,  which  would  interfere  with  the  religious 
function  of  the  object,  as  the  symbol  and  embodi- 
ment of  an  impersonal  faith. 

§23.    Symmetry  is  evidently  a  kind  Form  the  unity 
of  unity  in  variety,  where  a  whole  is 
determined  by  the  rhythmic  repetition  of  similars. 
We  have  seen  that  it  has  a  value  where  it  is  an 


96  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

aid  to  unification.  Unity  would  thus  appear  to  be 
the  virtue  of  forms ;  but  a  moment's  reflection  will 
show  us  that  unity  cannot  be  absolute  and  be  a 
form;  a  form  is  an  aggregation,  it  must  have  ele- 
ments, and  the  manner  in  which  the  elements  are 
combined  constitutes  the  character  of  the  form. 
A  perfectly  simple  perception,  in  which  there  Avas 
no  consciousness  of  the  distinction  and  relation  of 
parts,  would  not  be  a  perception  of  form ;  it  would 
be  a  sensation.  Physiologically  these  sensations 
may  be  aggregates  and  their  values,  as  in  the  case 
of  musical  tones,  may  differ  according  to  the  man- 
ner in  which  certain  elements,  beats,  vibrations, 
nervous  processes,  or  what  not,  are  combined;  but 
for  consciousness  the  result  is  simple,  and  the 
value  is  the  pleasantness  of  a  datum  and  not  of 
a  process.  Form,  therefore,  does  not  appeal  to  the 
unattentive;  they  get  from  objects  only  a  vague 
sensation  which  may  in  them  awaken  extrinsic 
associations;  they  do  not  stop  to  survey  the  parts 
or  to  appreciate  their  relation,  and  consequently 
are  insensible  to  the  various  charms  of  various  uni- 
fications; they  can  find  in  objects  only  the  value 
of  material  or  of  function,  not  that  of  form. 

Beauty  of  form,  however,  is  what  specifically 
appeals  to  an  aesthetic  nature;  it  is  equally  re- 
moved from  the  crudity  of  formless  stimulation 
and  from  the  emotional  looseness  of  reverie  and 
discursive  thought.  The  indulgence  in  sentiment 
and  suggestion,  of  which  our  time  is  fond,  to  the 
sacrifice  of  formal  beauty,  marks  an  absence  of 
cultivation  as  real,  if   not  as  confessed,   as  that 


FORM  97 

of  the  barbarian  who  revels  in  gorgeous  con- 
fusion. 

The  synthesis,  then,  which  constitutes  form  is 
an  activity  of  the  mind;  the  unity  arises  con- 
sciously, and  is  an  insight  into  the  relation  of 
sensible  elements  separately  perceived.  It  differs 
from  sensation  in  the  consciousness  of  the  synthe- 
sis, and  from  expression  in  the  homogeneity  of  the 
elements,  and  in  their  common  presence  to  sense. 

The  variety  of  forms  depends  upon  the  character 
of  the  elements  and  on  the  variety  of  possible 
methods  of  unification.  The  elements  may  be  all 
alike,  and  their  only  diversity  be  numerical.  Their 
unity  will  then  be  merely  the  sense  of  their  uni- 
formity.^ Or  they  may  differ  in  kind,  but  so  as  to 
compel  the  mind  to  no  particular  order  in  their 
unification.  Or  they  may  finally  be  so  constituted 
that  they  suggest  inevitably  the  scheme  of  their 
unity;  in  this  case  there  is  organization  in  the 
object,  and  the  synthesis  of  its  parts  is  one  and 
pre-determinate.  We  shall  discuss  these  various 
forms  in  succession,  pointing  out  the  effects  proper 
to  each. 

§  24.    The  radical  and  typical  case  of  Multiplicity  in 
the   first  kind  of  unity  in  variety   is  '""  '"^'"'  ^' 
found  in  the  perception  of  extension  itself.     This 
perception,  if  we  look  to  its  origin,  may  turn  out 
to  be  primitive;    no  doubt  the  feeling  of  "crude 

1  Cf.  Fechner,  Forsc/iit^e  der  Aesthetik,  Erster  Theilh,  S.  73,  a 
passage  by  which  the  following  classification  of  forms  was  first 
suggested. 


98  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

extensity"  is  an  original  sensation;  every  infer- 
ence, association,  and  distinction  is  a  thing  that 
looms  up  suddenly  before  the  mind,  and  the  nature 
and  actuality  of  which  is  a  datum  of  what  —  to 
indicate  its  irresistible  immediacy  and  indescrib- 
ability  —  we  may  well  call  sense.  Forms  are  seen, 
and  if  we  think  of  the  origin  of  the  perception,  we 
may  well  call  this  vision  a  sensation.  The  distinc- 
tion between  a  sensation  of  form,  however,  and  one 
which  is  formless,  regards  the  content  and  char- 
acter, not  the  genesis  of  the  perception.  A  dis- 
tinction and  association,  or  an  inference,  is  a 
direct  experience,  a  sensible  fact;  but  it  is  the 
experience  of  a  process,  of  a  motion  between  two 
terms,  and  a  consciousness  of  their  coexistence  and 
distinction;  it  is  a  feeling  of  relation.  Now  the 
sense  of  space  is  a  feeling  of  this  kind;  the  essence 
of  it  is  the  realization  of  a  variety  of  directions  and 
of  possible  motions,  by  v/hich  the  relation  of  point 
to  point  is  vaguely  but  inevitably  given.  The  per- 
ception of  extension  is  therefore  a  perception  of 
form,  although  of  the  most  rudimentary  kind.  It 
is  merely  Auseinanderseiii,  and  we  might  call  it 
the  materia  j^rima  of  form,  were  it  not  capable  of 
existing  without  further  determination.  For  we 
can  have  the  sense  of  space  without  the  sense  of 
boundaries;  indeed,  this  intuition  is  what  tempts 
us  to  declare  space  infinite.  Space  would  have  to 
consist  of  a  finite  number  of  juxtaposed  blocks,  if 
our  experience  of  extension  carried  with  it  essen- 
tially the  realization  of  limits. 

The  aesthetic    effect    of    extensiveness    is    also 


FORM  99 

entirely  different  from  that  of  particular  shapes. 
Some  things  appeal  to  us  by  their  surfaces,  others 
by  the  lines  that  limit  those  surfaces.  And  this 
effect  of  surface  is  not  necessarily  an  effect  of 
material  or  colour;  the  evenness,  monotony,  and 
vastness  of  a  great  curtain  of  colour  produce  an 
effect  which  is  that  of  the  extreme  of  uniformity 
in  the  extreme  of  multiplicity;  the  eye  wanders 
over  a  fluid  infinity  of  unrecognizable  positions,  and 
the  sense  of  their  numberlessness  and  continuity 
is  precisely  the  source  of  the  emotion  of  extent. 
The  emotion  is  primary  and  has  undoubtedly  a 
physiological  ground,  while  the  idea  of  size  is  sec- 
ondary and  involves  associations  and  inferences. 
A  small  photograph  of  St.  Peter's  gives  the  idea 
of  size ;  as  does  a  distant  view  of  the  same  object. 
But  this  is  of  course  dependent  on  our  realization 
of  the  distance,  or  of  the  scale  of  the  representa- 
tion. The  value  of  size  becomes  immediate  only 
when  we  are  at  close  quarters  with  the  object; 
then  the  surfaces  really  subtend  a  large  angle  in 
the  field  of  vision,  and  the  sense  of  vastness  estab- 
lishes its  standard,  which  can  afterwards  be  applied 
to  other  objects  by  analogy  and  contrast.  There  is 
also,  to  be  sure,  a  moral  and  practical  import  in 
the  known  size  of  objects,  which,  by  association, 
determines  their  dignity;  but  the  pure  sense  of 
extension,  based  upon  the  atta^ck  of  the  object 
upon  the  apperceptive  resources  of  the  eye,  is  the 
truly  sesthetic  value  which  it  concerns  us  to  point 
out  here,  as  the  most  rudimentary  example  of 
form. 


100  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

Although  the  effect  of  extension  is  not  that  of 
material,  the  two  are  best  seen  in  conjunction. 
Material  must  appear  in  some  form;  but  when  its 
beauty  is  to  be  made  prominent,  it  is  well  that  this 
form  should  attract  attention  as  little  as  possible 
to  itself.  Now,  of  all  forms,  absolute  uniformity 
in  extension  is  the  simplest  and  most  allied  to  the 
material ;  it  gives  the  latter  only  just  enough  form 
to  make  it  real  and  perceptible.  Very  rich  and 
beautiful  materials  therefore  do  well  to  assume 
this  form.  You  will  spoil  the  beauty  you  have  by 
superimposing  another;  as  if  you  make  a  statue  of 
gold,  or  flute  a  jasper  column,  or  bedeck  a  velvet 
cloak.  The  beauty  of  stuffs  appears  when  they  are 
plain.  Even  stone  gives  its  specilic  quality  best  in 
great  unbroken  spaces  of  wall;  the  simplicity  of  the 
form  emphasizes  the  substance.  And  again,  the 
effect  of  extensity  is  never  long  satisfactory  unless 
it  is  superinduced  upon  some  material  beauty;  the 
dignity  of  great  hangings  would  suffer  if  they  were 
not  of  damask,  but  of  cotton,  and  the  vast  smooth- 
ness of  the  sky  would  grow  oppressive  if  it  were 
not  of  so  tender  a  blue. 

Example  of  §  25.   Another  beauty  of  the  sky  — 

the  stars  —  offers  so  striking  and  fasci- 
nating an  illustration  of  the  effect  of  multiplicity 
in  uniformity,  that  I  am  tempted  to  analyze  it  at 
some  length.  To  most  people,  I  fancy,  the  stars 
are  beautiful;  but  if  you  asked  why,  they  would 
be  at  a  loss  to  reply,  until  they  remembered  what 
they  had  heard  about  astronomy,  and  the  great  size 


FORM  101 

and  distance  and  possible  habitation  of  those  orbs. 
The  vague  and  ilkisive  ideas  thus  aroused  fall  in 
so  well  with  the  dumb  emotion  we  were  already 
feeling,  that  we  attribute  this  emotion  to  those 
ideas,  and  persuade  ourselves  that  the  power  of 
the  starry  heavens  lies  in  the  suggestion  of  astro- 
nomical facts. 

The  idea  of  the  insignificance  of  our  earth  and 
of  the  incomprehensible  multiplicity  of  worlds  is 
indeed  immensely  impressive;  it  may  even  be 
intensely  disagreeable.  There  is  something  baf- 
fling about  infinity;  in  its  presence  the  sense  of 
finite  humility  can  never  wholly  banish  the  rebel- 
lious suspicion  that  we  are  being  deluded.  Our 
mathematical  imagination  is  put  on  the  rack  by  an 
attempted  conception  that  has  all  the  anguish  of  a 
nightmare  and  probably,  could  we  but  awake,  all 
its  laughable  absurdity.  But  the  obsession  of  this 
dream  is  an  intellectual  puzzle,  not  an  aesthetic 
delight.  It  is  not  essential  to  our  admiration. 
Before  the  days  of  Kepler  the  heavens  declared 
the  glory  of  the  Lord ;  and  we  needed  no  calcula- 
tion of  stellar  distances,  no  fancies  about  a  plural- 
ity of  worlds,  no  image  of  infinite  spaces,  to  make 
the  stars  sublime. 

Had  we  been  taught  to  believe  that  the  stars 
governed  our  fortunes,  and  were  we  reminded  of 
fate  whenever  we  looked  at  them,  we  should  simi- 
larly tend  to  imagine  that  this  belief  was  the  source 
of  their  sublimity;  and,  if  the  superstition  were 
dispelled,  we  should  think  the  interest  gone  from 
the  apparition.     But  experience  would  soon  unde- 


102  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

cei^e  us,  and  prove  to  us  that  the  sensuous  char- 
acter of  the  object  was  sublime  in  itself.  Indeed, 
on  account  of  that  intrinsic  sublimity  the  sky  can 
be  fitly  chosen  as  a  symbol  for  a  sublime  concep- 
tion ;  the  common  quality  in  both  makes  each  sug- 
gest the  other.  For  that  reason,  too,  the  parable 
of  the  natal  stars  governing  our  lives  is  such  a 
natural  one  to  express  our  subjection  to  circum- 
stances, and  can  be  transformed  by  the  stupidity 
of  disciples  into  a  literal  tenet.  In  the  same  way, 
the  kinship  of  the  emotion  produced  by  the  stars 
with  the  emotion  proper  to  certain  religious  mo- 
ments makes  the  stars  seem  a  religious  object. 
They  become,  like  impressive  music,  a  stimulus  to 
worship.  But  fortunately  there  are  experiences 
which  remain  untouched  by  theory,  and  which 
maintain  the  mutual  intelligence  of  men  through 
the  estrangements  wrought  by  intellectual  and  relig- 
ious systems.  AVhen  the  superstructures  crumble, 
the  common  foundation  of  human  sentience  and 
imagination  is  exposed  beneath. 

The  intellectual  suggestion  of  the  infinity  of 
nature  can,  moreover,  be  awakened  by  other  expe- 
riences which  are  by  no  means  sublime.  A  heap 
of  sand  will  involve  infinity  as  surely  as  a  universe 
of  suns  and  planets.  Any  object  is  infinitely 
divisible  and,  when  we  press  the  thought,  can 
contain  as  many  worlds  with  as  many  winged 
monsters  and  ideal  republics  as  can  the  satellites 
of  Sirius.  But  the  infinitesimal  does  not  move  us 
aesthetically;  it  can  only  awaken  an  amused  curi- 
osity.   The  difference  cannot  lie  in  the  import  of  the 


FORM  103 

idea,  which  is  objectively  the  same  in  both  cases. 
It  lies  in  the  different  immediate  effect  of  the  crude 
images  which  give  us  the  type  and  meaning  of 
each;  the  crude  image  that  underlies  the  idea  of 
the  infinitesimal  is  the  dot,  the  poorest  and  most  un- 
interesting of  impressions;  while  the  crude  image 
that  underlies  the  idea  of  infinity  is  space,  multi- 
plicity in  uniformity,  and  this,  as  we  have  seen, 
has  a  powerful  effect  on  account  of  the  breadth, 
volume,  and  omnipresence  of  the  stimulation. 
Every  point  in  the  retina  is  evenly  excited,  and 
the  local  signs  of  all  are  simultaneously  felt.  This 
equable  tension,  this  balance  and  elasticity  in  the 
very  absence  of  fixity,  give  the  vague  but  powerful 
feeling  that  we  wish  to  describe.  Did  not  the 
infinite,  by  this  initial  assault  upon  our  senses, 
awe  us  and  overwhelm  us,  as  solemn  music  might, 
the  idea  of  it  would  be  abstract  and  moral  like  that 
of  the  infinitesimal,  and  nothing  but  an  amusing 
curiosity. 

Nothing  is  objectively  impressive;  things  are 
impressive  only  when  they  succeed  in  touching 
the  sensibility  of  the  observer,  by  finding  the 
avenues  to  his  brain  and  heart.  The  idea  that  the 
universe  is  a  multitude  of  minute  spheres  circling, 
like  specks  of  dust,  in  a  dark  and  boundless  void, 
might  leave  us  cold  and  indifferent,  if  not  bored 
and  depressed,  were  it  not  that  we  identify  this 
hypothetical  scheme  with  the  visible  splendour, 
the  poignant  intensity,  and  the  baffling  number  of 
tlie  stars.  So  far  is  the  object  from  giving  value 
to  the   impression,    that   it   is   here,    as   it   must 


104  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

always  ultimately  be,  the  impression  that  gives 
value  to  the  object.  For  all  worth  leads  us  back 
to  actual  feeling  somewhere,  or  else  evaporates  into 
nothing  —  into  a  word  and  a  superstition. 

Now,  the  starry  heavens  are  very  happily  de- 
signed to  intensify  the  sensations  on  which  their 
beauties  must  rest.  In  the  first  place,  the  con- 
tinuum of  space  is  broken  into  points,  numerous 
enough  to  give  the  utmost  idea  of  multiplicity,  and 
yet  so  distinct  and  vivid  that  it  is  impossible  not 
to  remain  aware  of  their  individuality.  The  vari- 
ety of  local  signs,  without  becoming  organized  into 
forms,  remains  prominent  and  irreducible.  This 
makes  the  object  infinitely  more  exciting  than  a 
plane  surface  would  be.  In  the  second  place,  the 
sensuous  contrast  of  the  dark  background,  —  blacker 
the  clearer  the  night  and  the  more  stars  we  can  see, 
—  with  the  palpitating  fire  of  the  stars  themselves, 
could  not  be  exceeded  by  any  possible  device.  This 
material  beauty  adds  incalculably,  as  we  have 
already  pointed  out,  to  the  inwardness  and  sub- 
limity of  the  effect.  To  realize  the  great  impor- 
tance of  these  two  elements,  we  need  but  to  conceive 
their  absence,  and  observe  the  change  in  the  dignity 
of  the  result. 

Taney  a  map  of  the  heavens  and  every  star 
plotted  upon  it,  even  those  invisible  to  the  naked 
eye:  why  would  this  object,  as  full  of  scientific 
suggestion  surely  as  the  reality,  leave  us  so  com- 
paratively cold?  Quite  indifferent  it  might  not 
leave  us,  for  I  have  myself  watched  stellar  photo- 
graphs with  almost  inexhaustible  wonder.  The  sense 


FORM  105 

of  multiplicity  is  naturally  in  no  way  diminished 
by  the  representation;  but  the  poignancy  of  the 
sensation,  the  life  of  the  light,  are  gone;  and  with 
the  dulled  impression  the  keenness  of  the  emotion 
disappears.  Or  imagine  the  stars,  undiminished 
in  number,  without  losing  any  of  their  astro- 
nomical significance  and  divine  immutability,  mar- 
shalled in  geometrical  patterns;  say  in  a  Latin 
cross,  with  the  words  Li  hoc  signo  vmces  in  a  scroll 
around  them.  The  beauty  of  the  illumination 
would  be  perhaps  increased,  and  its  import,  prac- 
tical, religious,  and  cosmic,  would  surely  be  a  little 
plainer;  but  where  would  be  the  sublimity  of  the 
spectacle?  Irretrievably  lost:  and  lost  because 
the  form  of  the  object  would  no  longer  tantalize 
us  with  its  sheer  multiplicity,  and  with  the  conse- 
quent overpowering  sense  of  suspense  and  awe. 

In  a  word,  the  infinity  which  moves  us  is  the 
sense  of  multiplicity  in  uniformity.  Accordingly 
things  which  have  enough  multiplicity,  as  the 
lights  of  a  city  seen  across  water,  have  an  effect 
similar  to  that  of  the  stars,  if  less  intense;  whereas 
a  star,  if  alone,  because  the  multiplicity  is  lacking, 
makes  a  wholly  different  impression.  The  single 
star  is  tender,  beautiful,  and  mild;  we  can  com- 
pare it  to  the  humblest  and  sweetest  of  things : 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 
Fair  as  a  stm^  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

It  is,  not  only  in  fact  but  in  nature,  an  attendant 
on  the  moon,  associated  with  the  moon,  if  we  may 


106  THE  SEXSE  OF  BEAUTY 

be  SO  prosaic  here,  not  only  by  contiguity  but  also 
by  similarity. 

Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-regioned  star 
Or  vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky. 

The  same  poet  can  say  elsewhere  of  a  passionate 

lover : 

He  arose 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star, 
Amid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose. 

How  opposite  is  all  this  from  the  cold  glitter, 
the  cruel  and  mysterious  sublimity  of  the  stars 
when  they  are  many!  With  these  we  have  no 
Sapphic  associations;  they  make  us  think  rather 
of  Kant  who  could  hit  on  nothing  else  to  compare 
with  his  categorical  imperative,  perhaps  because 
he  found  in  both  the  same  baffling  incomprehensi- 
bility and  the  same  fierce  actuality.  Such  ulti- 
mate feelings  are  sensations  of  physical  tension. 

Defects  of  §  26.    Tliis   loug   analysis  will  be   a 

^p'ncity"  '  sufficient  illustration  of  the  power  of 
multiplicity  in  uniformity;  we  may 
now  proceed  to  point  out  the  limitations  inherent 
in  this  form.  The  most  obvious  one  is  that  of 
monotony;  a  file  of  soldiers  or  an  iron  railing  is 
impressive  in  its  way,  but  cannot  long  entertain 
us,  nor  hold  us  with  that  depth  of  developing 
interest,  with  which  we  might  study  a  crowd  or 
a  forest  of  trees. 

The  tendency  of  monotony  is  double,  and  in  two 
directions  deadens  our  pleasure.      When  the  re- 


FORM  107 

peated  impressions  are  acute,  and  cannot  be  forgot- 
ten in  their  endless  repetition,  their  monotony 
becomes  painful.  The  constant  appeal  to  the 
same  sense,  the  constant  requirement  of  the  same 
reaction,  tires  the  system,  and  we  long  for  change 
as  for  a  relief.  If  the  repeated  stimulations  are 
not  very  acute,  we  soon  become  unconscious  of 
them;  like  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  they  become 
merely  a  factor  in  our  bodily  tone,  a  cause,  as  the 
case  may  be,  of  a  diffused  pleasure  or  unrest ;  but 
they  cease  to  present  a  distinguishable  object. 

The  pleasures,  therefore,  which  a  kindly  but  mo- 
notonous environment  produces,  often  fail  to  make 
it  beautiful,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  environ- 
ment is  not  perceived.  Likewise  the  hideousness 
of  things  to  which  Ave  are  accustomed  —  the  blem- 
ishes of  the  landscape,  the  ugliness  of  our  clothes 
or  of  our  walls  —  do  not  oppress  us,  not  so  much 
because  we  do  not  see  the  ugliness  as  because  we 
overlook  the  things.  The  beauties  or  defects  of 
monotonous  objects  are  easily  lost,  because  the  ob- 
jects are  themselves  intermittent  in  consciousness. 
But  it  is  of  some  practical  importance  to  remark 
that  this  indifference  of  monotonous  values  is  more 
apparent  than  real.  The  particular  object  ceases 
to  be  of  consequence;  but  the  congruity  of  its 
structure  and  quality  with  our  faculties  of  percep- 
tion remains,  and  its  presence  in  our  environment 
is  still  a  constant  source  of  vague  irritation  and 
friction,  or  of  subtle  and  pervasive  delight.  And 
this  value,  although  not  associated  with  the  image 
of  the  monotonous  object,  lies  there  in  our  mind. 


108  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

like  all  the  vital  and  systemic  feelings,  ready  to 
enhance  the  beauty  of  any  object  that  arouses  our 
attention,  and  meantime  adding  to  the  health  and 
freedom  of  our  life  —  making  whatever  we  do  a 
little  easier  and  pleasanter  for  us.  A  grateful 
environment  is  a  substitute  for  happiness.  It  can 
quicken  us  from  without  as  a  fixed  hope  and  affec- 
tion, or  tlie  consciousness  of  a  right  life,  can  quicken 
U3  from  within.  To  humanize  our  surroundings  is, 
therefore,  a  task  which  should  interest  the  physi- 
cians both  of  soul  and  body. 

But  the  monotony  of  multiplicity  is  not  merely 
intrinsic  in  the  form;  what  is  perhaps  even  of 
greater  consequence  in  the  arts  is  the  fact  that  its 
cax)acity  for  association  is  restricted.  What  is  in 
itself  uniform  cannot  have  a  great  diversity  of 
relations.  Hence  the  dryness,  the  crisp  definite- 
ness  and  hardness,  of  those  products  of  art  which 
contain  an  endless  repetition  of  the  same  elements. 
Their  affinities  are  necessarily  few;  they  are  not 
fit  for  many  uses,  nor  capable  of  expressing  many 
ideas.  The  heroic  couplet,  now  too  much  derided, 
is  a  form  of  this  kind.  Its  compactness  and  inev- 
itableness  make  it  excellent  for  an  epigram  and 
adequate  it  for  a  satire,  but  its  perpetual  snap  and 
unvarying  rhythm  are  thin  for  an  epic,  and  impos- 
sible for  a  song.  The  Greek  colonnade,  a  form  in 
many  ways  analogous,  has  similar  limitations. 
Beautiful  with  a  finished  and  restrained  beauty, 
which  our  taste  is  hardly  refined  enough  to  appre- 
ciate, it  is  incapable  of  development.  The  experi- 
ments of  Eoman  architecture  sufficiently  show  it; 


FORM  109 

the  glory  of  which,  is  their  Boman  frame  rather 
than  their  Hellenic  ornament. 

When  the  Greeks  themselves  had  to  face  the 
problem  of  larger  and  more  complex  buildings,  in 
the  service  of  a  supernatural  and  hierarchical  sys- 
tem, they  transformed  their  architecture  into  what 
we  call  Byzantine,  and  St.  Sophia  took  the  place 
of  the  Parthenon.  Here  a  vast  vault  was  intro- 
duced, the  colonnade  disappeared,  the  architrave 
was  rounded  into  an  arch  from  column  to  column, 
the  capitals  of  these  were  changed  from  concave  to 
convex,  and  a  thousand  other  changes  in  structure 
and  ornament  introduced  flexibility  and  variety. 
Architecture  could  in  this  way,  precisely  because 
more  vague  and  barbarous,  better  adapt  itself  to 
the  conditions  of  the  new  epoch.  Perfect  taste  is 
itself  a  limitation,  not  because  it  intentionally 
excludes  any  excellence,  but  because  it  impedes 
the  wandering  of  the  arts  into  those  bypaths  of 
caprice  and  grotesqueness  in  which,  although  at 
the  sacrifice  of  formal  beauty,  interesting  partial 
effects  might  still  be  discovered.  And  this  objec- 
tion applies  with  double  force  to  the  first  crystalli- 
zations of  taste,  when  tradition  has  carried  us  but 
a  little  way  in  the  right  direction.  The  authorized 
effects  are  then  very  simple,  and  if  we  allow  no 
others,  our  art  becomes  wholly  inadequate  to  the 
functions  ultimately  imposed  upon  it.  Primitive 
arts  might  furnish  examples,  but  the  state  of  Eng- 
lish poetry  at  the  time  of  Queen  Anne  is  a  suffi- 
cient illustration  of  this  possibility.  The  French 
classicism,   of  which  the  English  school  was  an 


110  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

echo,  was  more  vital  and  human,  because  it  em- 
bodied a  more  native  taste  and  a  wider  training. 

/Esthetics  of         §  27.    It  would  be  an  error  to  suppose 

democracy.  .  .       .    , 

that  88sthetic  principles  apply  only  to 
our  judgments  of  works  of  art  or  of  those  natural 
objects  which  we  attend  to  chiefly  on  account  of 
their  beauty.  Every  idea  which  is  formed  in  the 
human  mind,  every  activity  and  emotion,  has  some 
relation,  direct  or  indirect,  to  jjain  and  pleasure. 
If,  as  is  the  case  in  all  the  more  important  in- 
stances, these  fluid  activities  and  emotions  pre- 
cipitate, as  it  were,  in  their  evanescence  certain 
psychical  solids  called  ideas  of  things,  then  the 
concomitant  pleasures  are  incorporated  more  or 
less  in  those  concrete  ideas  and  the  things  acquire 
an  aesthetic  colouring.  And  although  this  aesthetic 
colouring  may  be  the  last  quality  we  notice  in  ob- 
jects of  practical  interest,  its  influence  upon  us  is 
none  the  less  real,  and  often  accounts  for  a  great 
deal  in  our  moral  and  practical  attitude. 

In  the  leading  political  and  moral  idea  of  our 
time,  in  the  idea  of  democracy,  I  think  there  is  a 
strong  aesthetic  ingredient,  and  the  power  of  the 
idea  of  democracy  over  the  imagination  is  an  illus- 
tration of  that  effect  of  multiplicity  in  uniformity 
which  we  have  been  studying.  Of  course,  nothing 
could  be  more  absurd  than  to  suggest  that  the 
French  Eevolution,  with  its  immense  implica- 
tions, had  an  aesthetic  preference  for  its  basis;  it 
sprang,  as  we  know,  from  the  hatred  of  oppres- 
sion,  the  rivalry  of    classes,    and   the   aspiration 


FORM  111 

after  a  freer  social  and  strictly  moral  organization. 
But  Avhen  these  moral  forces  were  suggesting  and 
partly  realizing  the  democratic  idea,  this  idea  was 
necessarily  vividly  present  to  men's  thoughts;  the 
picture  of  human  life  which  it  presented  was  be- 
coming familiar,  and  was  being  made  the  sanc- 
tion and  goal  of  constant  endeavour.  Nothing  so 
much  enhances  a  good  as  to  make  sacrifices  for  it. 
The  consequence  was  that  democracy,  prized  at 
first  as  a  means  to  happiness  and  as  an  instru- 
ment of  good  government,  was  acquiring  an  in- 
trinsic value;  it  was  beginning  to  seem  good  in 
itself,  in  fact,  the  only  intrinsically  right  and 
perfect  arrangement.  A  utilitarip.n  scheme  was 
receiving  an  aesthetic  consecration.  That  which 
was  happening  to  democracy  had  happened  before 
to  the  feudal  and  royalist  systems ;  they  too  had 
come  to  be  prized  in  themselves,  for  the  pleasure 
men  took  in  thinking  of  society  organized  in  such 
an  ancient,  and  thereby  to  their  fancy,  appropriate 
and  beautiful  manner.  The  practical  value  of  the 
arrangement,  on  which,  of  course,  it  is  entirely 
dependent  for  its  origin  and  authority,  was  for- 
gotten, and  men  were  ready  to  sacrifice  their  wel- 
fare to  their  sense  of  propriety;  that  is,  they 
allowed  an  sesthetic  good  to  outweigh  a  practical 
one.  That  seems  now  a  superstition,  although,  in- 
deed, a  very  natural  and  even  noble  one.  Equally 
natural  and  noble,  but  no  less  superstitious,  is  our 
own  belief  in  the  divine  right  of  democracy.  Its 
essential  right  is  something  purely  sesthetic. 

Such  ifisthetic  love  of  uniformity,  however,  is 


112  TIIi:  SEXSE  OF  BEAUTY 

usually  disguised  under  some  moral  label :  we  call 
it  the  love  of  justice,  perhaps  because  we  have  not 
considered  that  the  value  of  justice  also,  in  so  far 
as  it  is  not  derivative  and  utilitarian,  must  be 
intrinsic,  or,  what  is  practically  the  same  thing, 
aesthetic.  But  occasionally  the  beauties  of  democ- 
racy are  presented  to  us  undisguised.  The  writ- 
ings of  Walt  Whitman  are  a  notable  example. 
Never,  perhaps,  has  the  charm  of  uniformity  in 
multiplicity  been  felt  so  completely  and  so  exclu- 
sively. Everywhere  it  greets  us  with  a  passionate 
preference;  not  flowers  but  leaves  of  grass,  not 
music  but  drum-taps,  not  composition  but  aggre- 
gation, not  the  hero  but  the  average  man,  not  the 
crisis  but  the  vulgarest  moment;  and  by  this  reso- 
lute marshalling  of  nullities,  by  this  effort  to  show 
us  everything  as  a  momentary  pulsation  of  a  liquid 
and  structureless  whole,  he  profoundly  stirs  the 
imagination.  We  may  wish  to  dislike  this  power, 
but,  I  think,  we  must  inwardly  admire  it.  For 
whatever  practical  dangers  we  may  see  in  this 
terrible  levelling,  our  aesthetic  faculty  can  condemn 
no  actual  effect;  its  privilege  is  to  be  pleased 
by  opposites,  and  to  be  capable  of  finding  chaos 
sublime  without  ceasing  to  make  nature  beautiful. 

vaiuss  of  §  28.    It  is  time  we  should  return  to 

values  of  the  Consideration  of  abstract  forms. 
examples.  Nearest  in  nature  to  the  example  of 
uniformity  in  multiplicity,  we  found  those  objects, 
like  a  reversible  pattern,  that  having  some  variety 
of  parts  invite  us  to  survey  them  in  different  orders, 


FORM  113 

and  so  bring  into  play  in  a  marked  manner  the  fac- 
ulty of  apperception. 

There  is  in  the  senses,  as  we  have  seen,  a  certain 
form  of  stimulation,  a  certain  measure  and  rhythm 
of  waves  with  which  the  aesthetic  value  of  the  sen- 
sation is  connected.  So  when,  in  the  perception  of 
the  object,  a  notable  contribution  is  made  by  mem- 
ory and  mental  habit,  the  value  of  the  perception 
will  be  due,  not  only  to  the  pleasantness  of  the  ex- 
ternal stimulus,  but  also  to  the  pleasantness  of  the 
apperceptive  reaction ;  and  the  latter  source  of  value 
will  be  more  important  in  proportion  as  the  object 
perceived  is  more  dependent,  for  the  form  and  mean- 
ing it  presents,  upon  our  past  experience  and  imagi- 
native trend,  and  less  on  the  structure  of  the  external 
object. 

Our  apperception  of  form  varies  not  only  with 
our  constitution,  age,  and  health,  as  does  the  ap- 
preciation of  sensuous  values,  but  also  with  our 
education  and  genius.  The  more  indeterminate  the 
object,  the  greater  share  must  subjective  forces  have 
in  determining  our  perception;  for,  of  course,  every 
perception  is  in  itself  perfectly  specific,  and  can  be 
called  indefinite  only  in  reference  to  an  abstract 
ideal  which  it  is  expected  to  approach.  Every 
cloud  has  just  the  outline  it  has,  although  we 
may  call  it  vague,  because  we  cannot  classify  its 
form  under  any  geometrical  or  animal  species;  it 
would  be  first  definitely  a  whale,  and  then  would 
become  indefinite  until  we  saw  our  way  to  calling 
it  a  camel.  But  while  in  the  intermediate  stage, 
the  cloud  would  be  a  form  in  the  perception  of 


114  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

which  there  would  be  little  apperceptive  activity, 
little  reaction  from  the  store  of  our  experience, 
little  sense  of  form;  its  value  would  be  in  its 
colour  and  transparency,  and  in  the  suggestion  of 
lightness  and  of  complex  but  gentle  movement. 

But  the  moment  we  said  "Yes,  very  like  a 
wliale,"  a  new  kind  of  value  would  appear;  the 
cloud  could  now  be  beautiful  or  ugly,  not  as  a 
cloud  merely,  but  as  a  whale.  We  do  not  speak 
now  of  the  associations  of  the  idea,  as  with  the  sea, 
or  fishermen's  yarns;  that  is  an  extrinsic  matter  of 
expression.  We  speak  simply  of  the  intrinsic 
value  of  the  form  of  the  whale,  of  its  lines,  its 
movement,  its  proportion.  This  is  a  more  or  less 
individual  set  of  images  which  are  revived  in  the 
act  of  recognition ;  this  revival  constitutes  the  rec- 
ognition, and  the  beauty  of  the  form  is  the  pleasure 
of  that  revival.  A  certain  musical  phrase,  as  it 
were,  is  played  in  the  brain;  the  awakening  of  that 
echo  is  the  act  of  apperception  and  the  harmony  of 
the  present  stimulation  with  the  form  of  that  phrase ; 
the  power  of  this  particular  object  to  develope  and 
intensify  that  generic  phrase  in  the  direction  of 
pleasure,  is  the  test  of  the  formal  beauty  of  this 
example.  For  these  cerebral  phrases  have  a  cer- 
tain rhythm;  this  rhythm  can,  by  the  influence  of 
the  stimulus  that  now  reawakens  it,  be  marred  or 
enriched,  be  made  more  or  less  marked  and  deli- 
cate; and  as  this  conflict  or  reinforcement  comes, 
the  object  is  ugly  or  beautiful  in  form. 

Such  an  esthetic  value  is  thus  dependent  on  two 
things.     The  first  is  the  accpired  character  of  the 


FOEM  115 

apperceptive  form  evoked;  it  may  be  a  cadenza  or 
a  trill,  a  major  or  a  minor  cliord,  a  rose  or  a  violet, 
a  goddess  or  a  dairy -maid;  and  as  one  or  another  of 
these  is  recognized,  an  aesthetic  dignity  and  tone  is 
given  to  the  object.  But  it  will  be  noticed  that  in 
such  mere  recognition  very  little  pleasure  is  found, 
or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  different  aesthetic  types 
in  the  abstract  have  little  difference  in  intrinsic 
beauty.  The  great  difference  lies  in  their  affinities. 
What  will  decide  us  to  like  or  not  to  like  the  type  of 
our  apperception  will  be  not  so  much  what  this  type 
is,  as  its  fitness  to  the  context  of  our  mind.  It  is 
like  a  word  in  a  poem,  more  effective  by  its  fitness 
than  by  its  intrinsic  beauty,  although  that  is  requi- 
site too.  We  can  be  shocked  at  an  incongruity  of 
natures  more  than  we  can  be  pleased  by  the  intrin- 
sic beauty  of  each  nature  apart,  so  long,  that  is, 
as  they  remain  abstract  natures,  objects  recognized 
without  being  studied.  The  aesthetic  dignity  of 
the  form,  then,  tells  us  the  kind  of  beauty  we  are 
to  expect,  affects  us  by  its  welcome  or  unwelcome 
promise,  but  hardly  gives  us  a  positive  pleasure  in 
the  beauty  itself. 

Now  this  is  the  first  thing  in  the  value  of  a  form, 
the  value  of  the  type  as  such ;  the  second  and  more 
important  element  is  the  relation  of  the  particular 
impression  to  the  form  under  which  it  is  apper- 
ceived.  This  determines  the  value  of  the  object  as 
an  example  of  its  class.  After  our  mind  is  pitched 
to  the  key  and  rhythm  of  a  certain  idea,  say  of 
a  queen,  it  remains  for  the  impression  to  fulfil, 
aggrandize,  or  enrich  this  form  by  a  sympathetic 


116  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

embodiment  of  it.  Then  we  have  a  queen  that  is 
truly  royal.  But  if  instead  there  is  disappoint- 
ment, if  this  particular  queen  is  an  ugly  one, 
although  perhaps  she  might  have  pleased  as  a 
v/itch,  this  is  because  the  apperceptive  form  and 
the  impression  give  a  cerebral  discord.  The  ob- 
ject is  unideal,  that  is,  the  novel,  external  element 
is  inharmonious  with  the  revived  and  internal  ele- 
ment by  suggesting  which  the  object  has  been  ap- 
perceived. 

Origin  of  §  29.    A  most  important  thing,  there- 

^  ^ '  fore,  in  the  perception  of  form  is  the 

formation  of  types  in  our  mind,  with  reference  to 
which  examples  are  to  be  judged.  I  say  the  forma- 
tion of  them,  for  we  can  hardly  consider  the  theory 
that  they  are  eternal  as  a  possible  one  in  psychol- 
ogy. The  Platonic  doctrine  on  that  point  is  a 
striking  illustration  of  an  equivocation  we  men- 
tioned in  the  beginning ;  ^  namely,  that  the  import 
of  an  experience  is  regarded  as  a  manifestation  of 
its  cause  —  the  product  of  a  faculty  substituted  for 
the  description  of  its  function.  Eternal  types  are 
the  instrument  of  aesthetic  life,  not  its  foundation. 
Take  the  aesthetic  attitude,  and  you  have  for  the 
moment  an  eternal  idea;  an  idea,  I  mean,  that  you 
treat  as  an  absolute  standard,  just  as  when  you  take 
the  percei)tive  attitude  you  have  an  external  object 
which  you  treat  as  an  absolute  existence.  But  the 
aesthetic,  like  the  perceptive  faculty,  can  be  made 

1  See  Introduction,  p.  12. 


FORM  117 

an  object  of  study  in  turn,  and  its  theory  can  bo 
sought;  and  then  the  eternal  idea,  like  the  external 
object,  is  seen  to  be  a  product  of  human  nature,  a 
symbol  of  experience,  and  an  instrument  of  thought. 

The  question  whether  there  are  not,  in  external 
nature  or  in  the  mind  of  God,  objects  and  eternal 
types,  is  indeed  not  settled,  it  is  not  even  touched 
by  this  inquiry ;  but  it  is  indirectly  shown  to  be 
futile,  because  such  transcendent  realities,  if  they 
exist,  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  ideas  of  them. 
The  Platonic  idea  of  a  tree  may  exist;  how  should  I 
deny  it?  How  should  I  deny  that  I  might  some  day 
find  myself  outside  the  sky  gazing  at  it,  and  feel- 
ing that  I,  with  my  mental  vision,  am  beholding  the 
plenitude  of  arboreal  beauty,  perceived  in  this  world 
only  as  a  vague  essence  haunting  the  multiplicity 
of  finite  trees?  But  what  can  that  have  to  do 
with  my  actual  sense  of  what  a  tree  should  be? 
Shall  we  take  the  Platonic  myth  literally,  and  say 
the  idea  is  a  memory  of  the  tree  I  have  already 
seen  in  heaven?  How  else  establish  any  relation 
between  that  eternal  object  and  the  type  in  my 
mind?  But  why,  in  that  case,  this  infinite  varia- 
bility of  ideal  trees?  Was  the  Tree  Beautiful  an 
oak,  or  a  cedar,  an  English  or  an  American  elm? 
My  actual  types  are  finite  and  mutually  exclusive; 
that  heavenly  type  must  be  one  and  infinite.  The 
problem  is  hopeless. 

Very  simple,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  explana- 
tion of  the  existence  of  that  type  as  a  residuum  of 
experience.  Our  idea  of  an  individual  thing  is  a 
compound  and  residuum  of  our  several  experiences 


118  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  it;  and  in  the  same  manner  our  idea  of  a  class 
is  a  compound  and  residuum  of  our  ideas  of  the 
particulars  that  compose  it.  Particular  impres- 
sions have,  by  virtue  of  their  intrinsic  similarity 
or  of  the  identity  of  their  rela^tions,  a  tendency  to 
be  merged  and  identified,  so  that  many  individual 
perceptions  leave  but  a  single  blurred  memory  that 
stands  for  them  all,  because  it  combines  their  sev- 
eral associations.  Similarly,  when  various  objects 
have  many  common  characteristics,  the  mind  is 
incapable  of  keeping  them  apart.  It  cannot  hold 
clearly  so  great  a  multitude  of  distinctions  and  re- 
lations as  would  be  involved  in  naming  and  con- 
ceiving separately  each  grain  of  sand,  or  drop  of 
water,  each  fly  or  horse  or  man  that  we  have  ever 
seen.  The  mass  of  our  experience  has  therefore  to 
be  classified,  if  it  is  to  be  available  at  all.  Instead 
of  a  distinct  image  to  represent  each  of  our  original 
impressions,  we  have  a  general  resultant  —  a  com- 
IJQsite  photograph  —  of  those  impressions. 

This  resultant  image  is  the  idea  of  the  class.  It 
often  has  very  few,  if  any,  of  the  sensible  proper- 
ties of  the  particulars  that  underlie  it,  often  an 
artificial  symbol  —  the  sound  of  a  word  —  is  the 
only  element,  x^^'esent  to  all  the  instances,  which 
the  generic  image  clearly  contains.  For,  of  course, 
the  reason  why  a  name  can  represent  a  class  of 
objects  is  that  the  name  is  the  most  conspicuous 
element  of  identity  in  the  various  experiences  of 
objects  in  that  class.  We  have  seen  many  horses, 
but  if  we  are  not  lovers  of  the  animal,  nor  particu- 
larly keen  observers,  very  likely  we  retain  no  clear 


FORM  119 

image  of  all  that  mass  of  impressions  except  the 
reverberation  of  the  sound  "horse,"  which  really 
or  mentally  has  accompanied  all  those  impressions. 
This  sound,  therefore,  is  the  content  of  our  general 
idea,  and  to  it  cling  all  the  associations  which  con- 
stitute our  sense  of  what  the  word  means.  But  a 
person  with  a  memory  predominantly  visual  would 
probably  add  to  this  remembered  sound  a  more  or 
less  detailed  image  of  the  animal;  some  particular 
horse  in  some  particular  attitude  might  possibly  be 
recalled,  but  more  probably  some  imaginative  con- 
struction, some  dream  image,  would  accompany  the 
sound.  An  image  which  reproduced  no  particular 
horse  exactly,  but  which  was  a  spontaneous  fiction 
of  the  fancy,  would  serve,  by  virtue  of  its  felt 
relations,  the  same  purpose  as  the  sound  itself. 
Such  a  spontaneous  image  would  be,  of  course, 
variable.  In  fact,  no  image  can,  strictly  speaking, 
ever  recur.  But  these  percepts,  as  they  are  called, 
springing  up  in  the  mind  like  flowers  from  the 
buried  seeds  of  past  experience,  would  inherit  all 
the  powers  of  suggestion  which  are  required  by 
any  instrument  of  classification. 

These  powers  of  suggestion  have  probably  a  cere- 
bral basis.  The  new  percept  —  the  generic  idea  — 
repeats  to  a  great  extent,  both  in  nature  and  locali- 
zation, the  excitement  constituting  the  various  orig- 
inal impressions;  as  the  percept  reproduces  more  or 
less  of  these  it  will  be  a  more  or  less  full  and  impar- 
tial representative  of  them.  Xot  all  the  suggestions 
of  a  word  or  image  are  equally  ripe.  A  generic  idea 
or  type  usually  presents  to  us  a  very  inadequate  and 


120  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

biassed  view  of  the  field  it  means  to  cover.  As  we 
reflect  and  seek  to  correct  this  inadequacy,  the  per- 
cept changes  on  our  hands.  The  very  consciousness 
that  other  individuals  and  other  qualities  fall  under 
our  concept,  changes  this  concept,  as  a  psychologi- 
cal presence,  and  alters  its  distinctness  and  extent. 
When  I  remember,  to  use  a  classical  example,  that 
the  triangle  is  not  isosceles,  nor  scalene,  nor  rec- 
tangular, but  each  and  all  of  those,  I  reduce  my 
percept  to  the  word  and  its  definition,  with  per- 
haps a  sense  of  the  general  motion  of  the  hand  and 
eye  by  which  we  trace  a  three-cornered  figure. 

Since  the  production  of  a  general  idea  is  thus  a 
matter  of  subjective  bias,  we  cannot  expect  that  a 
type  should  be  the  exact  average  of  the  examples 
from  which  it  is  drawn.  In  a  rough  way,  it  is  the 
average ;  a  fact  that  in  itself  is  the  strongest  of  argu- 
ments against  the  independence  or  priority  of  the 
general  idea.  The  beautiful  horse,  the  beautiful 
speech,  the  beautiful  face,  is  always  a  medium  be- 
tween the  extremes  which  our  experience  has  of- 
fered. It  is  enough  that  a  given  characteristic 
should  be  generally  present  in  our  experience,  for 
it  to  become  an  indispensable  element  of  the  ideal. 
There  is  nothing  in  itself  beautiful  or  necessary  in 
the  shape  of  the  human  ear,  or  in  the  presence  of 
nails  on  the  fingers  and  toes ;  but  the  ideal  of  man, 
which  the  preposterous  conceit  of  our  judgment 
makes  us  set  up  as  divine  and  eternal,  requires 
these  precise  details;  without  them  the  human 
form  would  be  repulsively  ugly. 

It  often  happens  that  the  accidents  of  experience 


FORM  121 

make  us  in  this  way  introduce  into  tlie  ideal,  ele- 
ments wliicli,  if  they  could  be  excluded  without 
disgusting  us,  would  make  possible  satisfactions 
greater  than  those  we  can  now  enjoy.  Thus  the 
taste  formed  by  one  school  of  art  may  condemn 
the  greater  beauties  created  by  another.  In  morals 
we  have  the  same  phenomenon.  A  barbarous 
ideal  of  life  requires  tasks  and  dangers  incom- 
patible with  happiness;  a  rude  and  oppressed  con- 
science is  incapable  of  regarding  as  good  a  state 
which  excludes  its  own  acrid  satisfactions.  So, 
too,  a  fanatical  imagination  cannot  regard  God 
as  just  unless  he  is  represented  as  infinitely  cruel. 
The  purpose  of  education  is,  of  course,  to  free  us 
from  these  prejudices,  and  to  develope  our  ideals  in 
the  direction  of  the  greatest  possible  good.  Evi- 
dently the  ideal  has  been  formed  by  the  habit  of 
perception;  it  is,  in  a  rough  way,  that  average 
form  which  we  expect  and  most  readily  apperceive. 
The  propriety  and  necessity  of  it  is  entirely  rela- 
tive to  our  experience  and  faculty  of  apperception. 
The  shock  of  surprise,  the  incongruity  with  the 
formed  percept,  is  the  essence  and  measure  of  ug- 
liness. 

§  30.    Nevertheless  we   do  not   form  ne  average 
aesthetic   ideals   any  more   than   other  "^he'diltcuon 
general  types,    entirely   without   bias,   of  pleasure. 
We  have  already  observed  that  a  percept  seldom 
gives  an   impartial   compound   of  the   objects   of 
v/hich  it  is  the  generic  image.     This  partiality  is 
due  to  a  variety  of  circumstances.     One  is  the  un- 


122  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

equal  accuracy  of  our  observation.  If  some  interest 
directs  our  attention  to  a  particular  quality  of  ob- 
jects, that  quality  will  be  prominent  in  our  per- 
cept; it  may  even  be  tlie  only  content  clearly 
given  in  our  general  idea;  and  any  object,  how- 
ever similar  in  other  respects  to  those  of  the  given 
class,  will  at  once  be  distinguished  as  belonging 
to  a  different  species  if  it  lacks  that  characteristic 
on  which  our  attention  is  particularly  fixed.  Our 
percepts  are  thus  habitually  biassed  in  the  direction 
of  practical  interest,  if  practical  interest  does  not 
indeed  entirely  govern  their  formation.  In  the 
same  manner,  our  aesthetic  ideals  are  biassed  in  the 
direction  of  aesthetic  interest.  Not  all  parts  of  an 
object  are  equally  congruous  with  our  perceptive 
faculty;  not  all  elements  are  noted  with  the  same 
pleasure.  Those,  therefore,  which  are  agreeable 
are  chiefly  dwelt  upon  by  the  lover  of  beauty,  and 
his  percept  will  give  an  average  of  things  with  a 
great  emphasis  laid  on  that  part  of  them  which  is 
beautiful.  The  ideal  will  thus  deviate  from  the 
average  in  the  direction  of  the  observer's  pleasure. 
For  this  reason  the  world  is  so  much  more  beau- 
tiful to  a  poet  or  an  artist  than  to  an  ordinary  man. 
Each  object,  as  his  aesthetic  sense  is  developed,  is 
perhaps  less  beautiful  than  to  tlie  uncritical  eye; 
his  taste  becomes  difficult,  and  only  the  very  best 
gives  him  unalloyed  satisfaction.  But  while  each 
work  of  nature  and  art  is  thus  apparently  blighted 
by  his  greater  demands  and  keener  susceptibility, 
the  world  itself,  and  the  various  natures  it  contains, 
are  to  him  unspeakably  beautiful.     The  more  blem- 


FORM  123 

islies  he  can  see  in  men,  the  more  excellence  he  sees 
in  man,  and  the  more  bitterly  he  laments  the  fate 
of  each  particular  soul,  the  more  reverence  and  love 
he  has  for  the  soul  in  its  ideal  essence.  Criticism 
and  idealization  involve  each  other.  The  habit  of 
looking  for  beauty  in  everything  makes  us  notice 
the  shortcomings  of  things;  our  sense,  hungry  for 
complete  satisfaction,  misses  the  perfection  it  de- 
mands. But  this  demand  for  perfection  becomes 
at  the  same  time  the  nucleus  of  our  observation; 
from  every  side  a  quick  affinity  draws  what  is  beau- 
tiful together  and  stores  it  in  the  mind,  giving  body 
there  to  the  blind  yearnings  of  our  nature.  Many 
imperfect  things  crystallize  into  a  single  perfec- 
tion. The  mind  is  thus  peopled  by  general  ideas 
in  which  beauty  is  the  chief  quality;  and  these 
ideas  are  at  the  same  time  the  types  of  things.  The 
type  is  still  a  natural  resultant  of  particular  im- 
pressions ;  but  the  formation  of  it  has  been  guided 
by  a  deep  subjective  bias  in  favour  of  what  has 
delighted  the  eye. 

This  theory  can  be  easily  tested  by  asking 
whether,  in  the  case  where  the  ideal  differs  from 
the  average  form  of  objects,  this  variation  is  not 
due  to  the  intrinsic  pleasantness  or  impressiveness 
of  the  quality  exaggerated.  For  instance,  in  the 
human  form,  the  ideal  differs  immensely  from  the 
average.  In  many  respects  the  extreme  or  some- 
thing near  it  is  the  most  beautiful.  Xenophon 
describes  the  women  of  Armenia  as  KaXAat  koI 
fieydXai,  and  we  should  still  speak  of  one  as  fair 
and  tall  and  of  another  as  fair  but  little.     Size  is 


124  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

therefore,  even  where  least  requisite,  a  thing  in 
which  the  ideal  exceeds  the  average.  And  the 
reason  —  apart  from  associations  of  strength  —  is 
that  unusual  size  makes  things  conspicuous.  The 
first  prerequisite  of  effect  is  impression,  and  size 
helps  that ;  therefore  in  the  sesthetic  ideal  the  aver- 
age will  be  modified  by  being  enlarged,  because  that 
is  a  change  in  the  direction  of  our  pleasure,  and  size 
will  be  an  element  of  beauty.^ 

Similarly  the  eyes,  in  themselves  beautiful,  will 
be  enlarged  also;  and  generally  whatever  makes  by 
its  sensuous  quality,  by  its  abstract  form,  or  by  its 
expression,  a  particular  appeal  to  our  attention  and 
contribution  to  our  delight,  will  count  for  more  in 
the  ideal  type  than  its  frequency  would  warrant. 
The  generic  image  has  been  constructed  under  the 
influence  of  a  selective  attention,  bent  upon  aes- 
thetic worth. 

To  praise  any  object  for  approaching  the  ideal  of 
its  kind  is  therefore  ouly  a  roundabout  way  of  speci- 
fying its  intrinsic  merit  and  expressing  its  direct 
effect  on  our  sensibility.  If  in  referring  to  the 
ideal  we  were  not  thus  analyzing  the  real,  the  ideal 
would  be  an  irrelevant  and  unmeaning  thing.  We 
know  what  the  ideal  is  because  we  observe  what 
pleases  us  in  the  reality.  If  we  allow  the  general 
notion  to  tyrannize  at  all  over  the  particular  im- 
pression and  to  blind  us  to  new  and  unclassified 

1  The  contention  of  Burke  that  the  beautiful  is  small  is  due 
to  an  arbitrary  definition.  By  beautiful  he  means  pretty  and 
charming;  agreeable  as  opposed  to  inii)ressive.  He  only  exag- 
gerates the  then  usual  opposition  of  the  beautiful  to  the  sublime. 


FORM  125 

beauties  wliicli  the  latter  may  contain,  we  are  sim- 
ply substituting  words  for  feelings,  and  making  a 
verbal  classification  pass  for  an  aesthetic  judgment. 
Then  the  sense  of  beauty  is  gone  to  seed.  Ideals 
have  their  uses,  but  their  authority  is  wholly  rep- 
resentative. They  stand  for  specific  satisfactions, 
or  else  they  stand  for  nothing  at  all. 

In  fact,  the  whole  machinery  of  our  intelligence, 
our  general  ideas  and  laws,  fixed  and  external  ob- 
jects, principles,  persons,  and  gods,  are  so  many 
symbolic,  algebraic  expressions.  They  stand  for 
experience;  experience  which  we  are  incapable  of 
retaining  and  surveying  in  its  multitudinous  im- 
mediacy. We  should  flounder  hopelessly,  like  the 
animals,  did  we  not  keep  ourselves  afloat  and  direct 
our  course  by  these  intellectual  devices.  Theory 
helps  us  to  bear  our  ignorance  of  fact. 

The  same  thing  happens,  in  a  way,  in  other 
fields.  Our  armies  are  devices  necessitated  by  our 
weakness;  our  property  an  encumbrance  required 
by  our  need.  If  our  situation  were  not  precarious, 
these  great  engines  of  death  and  life  would  not  be 
invented.  And  our  intelligence  is  such  another 
weapon  against  fate.  We  need  not  lament  the 
fact,  since,  after  all,  to  build  these  various  struct- 
ures is,  up  to  a  certain  point,  the  natural  function 
of  human  nature.  The  trouble  is  not  that  the 
products  are  always  subjective,  but  that  they  are 
sometimes  unfit  and  torment  the  spirit  which  they 
exercise.  The  pathetic  part  of  our  situation  ap- 
pears only  when  we  so  attach  ourselves  to  those 
necessary  but  imperfect  fictions,  as  to  reject  the 


126  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

facts  from  which  they  spring  and  of  which  they 
seek  to  be  prophetic.  We  are  then  guilty  of  that 
substitution  of  means  for  ends,  which  is  called 
idolatry  in  religion,  absurdity  in  logic,  and  folly 
in  morals.  In  aesthetics  the  thing  has  no  name, 
but  is  nevertheless  very  common;  for  it  is  found 
whenever  we  speak  of  what  ought  to  please,  rather 
than  of  what  actually  pleases. 

Are  all  things  §  31.  Thcsc  principles  lead  to  an  in- 
telligible answer  to  a  question  which  is 
not  uninteresting  in  itself  and  crucial  in  a  system 
of  aesthetics.  Are  all  things  beautiful?  Are  all 
types  equally  beautiful  when  we  abstract  from  our 
practical  prejudices?  If  the  reader  has  given  his 
assent  to  the  foregoing  propositions,  he  will  easily 
see  that,  in  one  sense,  we  must  declare  that  no 
object  is  essentially  ugly.  If  impressions  are 
painful,  they  are  objectified  with  difficulty;  the 
perception  of  a  thing  is  therefore,  under  normal 
circumstances,  when  the  senses  are  not  fatigued, 
rather  agreeable  than  disagreeable.  And  when  the 
frequent  perception  of  a  class  of  objects  has  given 
rise  to  an  apperceptive  norm,  and  we  have  an  ideal 
of  the  species,  the  recognition  and  exemplification 
of  that  norm  will  give  pleasure,  in  proportion  to 
the  degree  of  interest  and  accuracy  with  which  we 
have  made  our  observations.  The  naturalist  ac- 
cordingly sees  beauties  to  which  the  academic 
artist  is  blind,  and  each  new  environment  must 
open  to  us,  if  we  allow  it  to  educate  our  percep- 
tion, a  new  wealth  of  beautiful  forms. 


FORM  127 

But  we  are  not  for  this  reason  obliged  to  assert 
that  all  gradations  of  beauty  and  dignity  are  a 
matter  of  personal  and  accidental  bias.  The  mys- 
tics who  declare  that  to  God  there  is  no  distinction 
in  the  value  of  things,  and  that  only  our  human 
prejudice  makes  us  prefer  a  rose  to  an  oyster,  or 
a  lion  to  a  monkey,  have,  of  course,  a  reason  for 
what  they  say.  If  we  could  strip  ourselves  of  our 
human  nature,  we  should  undoubtedly  find  our- 
selves incapable  of  making  these  distinctions,  as 
well  as  of  thinking,  perceiving,  or  willing  in  any 
way  which  is  now  possible  to  us.  But  how  things 
would  appear  to  us  if  we  were  not  human  is,  to 
a  man,  a  question  of  no  importance.  Even  the 
mystic  to  whom  the  definite  constitution  of  his 
own  mind  is  so  hateful,  can  only  paralyze  with- 
out transcending  his  faculties.  A  passionate  nega- 
tion, the  motive  of  which,  although  morbid,  is  in 
spite  of  itself  perfectly  human,  absorbs  all  his 
energies,  and  his  ultimate  triumph  is  to  attain  the 
absoluteness  of  indifference. 

What  is  true  of  mysticism  in  general,  is  true  also 
of  its  manifestation  in  aesthetics.  If  we  could  so 
transform  our  taste  as  to  find  beauty  everywhere, 
because,  perhaps,  the  ultimate  nature  of  things  is 
as  truly  exemplified  in  one  thing  as  in  another, 
we  should,  in  fact,  have  abolislied  taste  altogether. 
For  the  ascending  series  of  aesthetic  satisfactions 
we  should  have  substituted  a  monotonous  judgment 
of  identity.  If  things  are  beautiful  not  by  virtue 
of  their  differences  but  by  virtue  of  an  identical 
something  which  they  equally  contain,  then  there 


128  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

could  be  no  discrimination  in  beauty.  Like  sub- 
stance, beauty  would  be  everywhere  one  and  the 
same,  and  any  tendency  to  prefer  one  thing  to 
another  would  be  a  proof  of  finitude  and  illusion. 
When  we  try  to  make  our  judgments  absolute, 
what  we  do  is  to  surrender  our  natural  standards 
and  categories,  and  slip  into  another  genus,  until 
we  lose  ourselves  in  the  satisfying  vagueness  of 
mere  being. 

Eelativity  to  our  partial  nature  is  therefore 
essential  to  all  our  definite  thoughts,  judgments, 
and  feelings.  And  when  once  the  human  bias  is 
admitted  as  a  legitimate,  because  for  us  a  neces- 
sary, basis  of  preference,  the  whole  wealth  of  nature 
is  at  once  organized  by  that  standard  into  a  hier- 
arch}^  of  values.  Everything  is  beautiful  because 
everything  is  capable  in  some  degree  of  interest- 
ing and  charming  our  attention ;  but  things  differ 
immensely  in  this  capacity  to  please  us  in  the 
contemplation  of  them,  and  therefore  they  differ 
immensel}^  in  beauty.  Could  our  nature  be  fixed 
and  determined  once  for  all  in  every  particular,  the 
scale  of  sesthetic  values  would  become  certain.  We 
should  not  dispute  about  tastes,  no  longer  because 
a  common  principle  of  preference  could  not  be  dis- 
covered, but  rather  because  any  disagreement  would 
then  be  impossible. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  human  nature  is  a 
vague  abstraction;  that  which  is  common  to  all 
men  is  the  least  part  of  their  natural  endowment. 
Esthetic  capacity  is  accordingly  very  unevenly 
distributed;  and  the  world  of  beauty  is  much  vaster 


FORM  129 

and  more  complex  to  one  man  than  to  another.  So 
long,  indeed,  as  the  distinction  is  merely  one  of 
development,  so  that  we  recognize  in  the  greatest 
connoisseur  only  the  refinement  of  the  judgments 
of  the  rudest  peasant,  our  sesthetic  principle  has 
not  changed ;  we  might  say  that,  in  so  far,  we  had 
a  common  standard  more  or  less  widely  applied. 
We  might  say  so,  because  that  standard  would 
be  an  implication  of  a  common  nature  more  or  less 
fully  developed. 

But  men  do  not  differ  only  in  the  degree  of  their 
susceptibility,  they  differ  also  in  its  direction. 
Human  nature  branches  into  opposed  and  incom- 
patible characters.  And  taste  follows  this  bifur- 
cation. We  cannot,  except  whimsically,  say  that 
a  taste  for  music  is  higher  or  lower  than  a  taste 
for  sculpture.  A  man  might  be  a  musician  and  a 
sculptor  by  turns ;  that  would  only  involve  a  per- 
fectly conceivable  enlargement  in  human  genius. 
But  the  union  thus  effected  would  be  an  accumula- 
tion of  gifts  in  the  observer,  not  a  combination  of 
beauties  in  the  object.  The  excellence  of  sculpt- 
ure and  that  of  music  would  remain  entirely  inde- 
pendent and  heterogeneous.  Such  divergences  are 
like  those  of  the  outer  senses  to  which  these  arts 
appeal.  Sound  and  colour  have  analogies  only  in 
their  lowest  depth,  as  vibrations  and  excitement; 
as  they  grow  specific  and  objective,  they  diverge ; 
and  although  the  same  consciousness  perceives 
them,  it  perceives  them  as  unrelated  and  uncom- 
binable  objects. 

The  ideal  enlargement  of  human  capacity,  there- 


130  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

fore,  has  no  tendenc}^  to  constitute  a  single  stand- 
ard of  beauty.  These  standards  remain  the 
expression  of  diverse  habits  of  sense  and  imagi- 
nation. The  man  who  combines  the  greatest  range 
with  the  greatest  endowment  in  each  particular, 
will,  of  course,  be  the  critic  most  generally  re- 
spected. He  will  express  the  feelings  of  the 
greater  number  of  men.  The  advantage  of  scope 
in  criticism  lies  not  in  the  improvement  of  our 
sense  in  each  particular  field;  here  the  artist  will 
detect  the  amateur's  shortcomings.  But  no  man 
is  a  specialist  with  his  whole  soul.  Some  latent 
capacity  he  has  for  other  perceptions ;  and  it  is  for 
the  awakening  of  these,  and  their  marshalling  be- 
fore him,  that  the  student  of  each  kind  of  beauty 
turns  to  the  lover  of  them  all. 

The  temptation,  therefore,  to  say  that  all  things 
are  really  equally  beautiful  arises  from  an  imper- 
fect analysis,  by  which  the  operations  of  the 
aesthetic  consciousness  are  only  partially  disinte- 
grated. The  dependence  of  the  degrees  of  beauty 
upon  our  nature  is  perceived,  while  the  dependence 
of  its  essence  upon  our  nature  is  still  ignored.  All 
things  are  not  equally  beautiful  because  the  subjec- 
tive bias  that  discriminates  between  them  is  the 
cause  of  their  being  beautiful  at  all.  The  princi- 
ple of  personal  preference  is  the  same  as  that  of 
human  taste ;  real  and  objective  beauty,  in  contrast 
to  a  vagary  of  individuals,  means  only  an  affinity 
to  a  more  prevalent  and  lasting  susceptibility, 
a  response  to  a  more  general  and  fundamental  de- 
mand.     And  the  keener  discrimination,  by  which 


FORM  131 

the  distance  between  beautiful  and  ugly  things  is 
increased,  far  from  being  a  loss  of  aesthetic  insight, 
is  a  development  of  that  faculty  by  the  exercise 
of  which  beauty  comes  into  the  world. 


§32.    It  is  the  free  exercise  of  the  Effects  of  \ 

dctet-minat 
organization. 


activity  of  apperception  that  gives  so 


peculiar  an  interest  to  indeterminate 
objects,  to  the  vague,  the  incoherent,  the  sugges- 
tive, the  variously  interpretable.  The  more  this 
effect  is  appealed  to,  the  greater  wealth  of  thought 
is  presumed  in  the  observer,  and  the  less  mastery 
is  displayed  by  the  artist.  A  poor  and  literal 
mind  cannot  enjoy  the  opportunity  for  reverie  and 
construction  given  by  the  stimulus  of  indetermi- 
nate objects;  it  lacks  the  requisite  resources.  It 
is  nonplussed  and  annoyed,  and  turns  away  to 
simpler  and  more  transparent  things  with  a  feel- 
ing of  helplessness  often  turning  into  contempt. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  artist  who  is  not  artist 
enough,  who  has  too  many  irrepressible  talents 
and  too  little  technical  skill,  is  sure  to  float  in 
the  region  of  the  indeterminate.  He  sketches  and 
never  paints;  he  hints  and  never  expresses;  he 
stimulates  and  never  informs.  This  is  the  method 
of  the  individuals  and  of  the  nations  that  have 
more  genius  than  art. 

The  consciousness  that  accompanies  this  charac- 
teristic is  the  sense  of  profundity,  of  mighty  sig- 
nificance. And  this  feeling  is  not  necessarily  an 
illusion.  The  nature  of  our  materials  —  be  they 
words,  colours,  or  plastic  matter  —  imposes  a  limit 


132  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

and  bias  upon  our  expression.  The  reality  of 
experience  can  never  be  quite  rendered  through 
these  media.  The  greatest  mastery  of  technique 
will  therefore  come  short  of  perfect  adequacy 
and  exhaustiveness ;  there  must  always  remain  a 
penumbra  and  fringe  of  suggestion  if  the  most 
explicit  representation  is  to  communicate  a  truth. 
When  there  is  real  profundity,  —  when  the  living 
core  of  things  is  most  firmly  grasped,  —  there  will 
accordingly  be  a  felt  inadequacy  of  expression, 
and  an  appeal  to  the  observer  to  piece  out  our 
imperfections  with  his  thoughts.  But  this  should 
come  only  after  the  resources  of  a  patient  and 
well-learned  art  have  been  exhausted;  else  what  is 
felt  as  depth  is  really  confusion  and  incompetence. 
The  simplest  thing  becomes  unutterable,  if  we 
have  forgotten  how  to  speak.  And  a  habitual  in- 
dulgence in  the  inarticulate  is  a  sure  sign  of  the 
philosopher  who  has  not  learned  to  think,  the  poet 
who  has  not  le'arned  to  write,  the  painter  who  has 
not  learned  to  paint,  and  the  impression  that  has 
not  learned  to  express  itself  —  all  of  which  are 
compatible  with  an  immensity  of  genius  in  the 
inexpressible  soul. 

Our  age  is  given  to  this  sort  of  self-indulgence, 
and  on  both  the  grounds  mentioned.  Our  public, 
without  being  really  trained,  —  for  we  appeal  to  too 
large  a  public  to  require  training  in  it,  —  is  well 
informed  and  eagerly  responsive  to  everything;  it 
is  ready  to  work  pretty  hard,  and  do  its  share 
towards  its  own  profit  and  entertainment.  It 
becomes  a  point  of  pride  with  it  to  understand  and 


FORM  133 

appreciate  everything.  And  our  art,  in  its  turn, 
does  not  overlook  this  opportunity.  It  becomes 
disorganized,  sporadic,  whimsical,  and  experimen- 
tal. The  crudity  we  are  too  distracted  to  refine, 
we  accept  as  originality,  and  the  vagueness  we  are 
too  pretentious  to  make  accurate,  we  pass  off  as 
sublimity.  This  is  the  secret  of  making  great 
works  on  novel  principles,  and  of  writing  hard 
books  easily. 

§  33.  An  extraordinary  taste  for  land-  Example  of 
scape  compensates  us  for  this  ignorance  '""'^^^"p^- 
of  what  is  best  and  most  finished  in  the  arts.  The 
natural  landscape  is  an  indeterminate  object;  it 
almost  always  contains  enough  diversity  to  allow 
the  eye  a  great  liberty  in  selecting,  emphasizing, 
and  grouping  its  elements,  and  it  is  furthermore 
rich  in  suggestion  and  in  vague  emotional  stimulus. 
A  landscape  to  be  seen  has  to  be  composed,  and  to 
be  loved  has  to  be  moralized.  That  is  the  reason 
why  rude  or  vulgar  people  are  indifferent  to  their 
natural  surroundings.  It  does  not  occur  to  them 
that  the  work-a-day  world  is  capable  of  sesthetic 
contemplation.  Only  on  holidays,  when  they  add 
to  themselves  and  their  belongings  some  unusual 
ornament,  do  they  stop  to  watch  the  effect.  The 
far  more  beautiful  daily  aspects  of  their  environ- 
ment escape  them  altogether.  When,  however, 
we  learn  to  apperceive;  when  we  grow  fond  of 
tracing  lines  and  developing  vistas;  when,  above 
all,  the  subtler  influences  of  places  on  our  mental 
tone  are  transmuted  into  an  expressiveness  in  those 


134  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

places,  and  they  are  furthermore  poetized  by  our 
day-dreams,  and  turned  by  our  instant  fancy  into 
so  many  hints  of  a  fairyland  of  happy  living  and 
vague  adventure,  —  then  we  feel  that  the  landscape 
is  beautiful.  The  forest,  the  fields,  all  wild  or 
rural  scenes,  are  then  full  of  companionship  and 
entertainment. 

This  is  a  beauty  dependent  on  reverie,  fancy, 
and  objectified  emotion.  The  promiscuous  natural 
landscape  cannot  be  enjoyed  in  any  other  way.  It 
has  no  real  unity,  and  therefore  requires  to  have 
some  form  or  other  supplied  by  the  fancy;  which 
can  be  the  more  readily  done,  in  that  the  possible 
forms  are  many,  and  the  constant  changes  in  the 
object  offer  varying  suggestions  to  the  eye.  In 
fact,  psychologically  speaking,  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  landscape;  what  we  call  such  is  an 
infinity  of  different  scraps  and  glimpses  given  in 
succession.  Even  a  painted  landscape,  although 
it  tends  to  select  and  emphasize  some  parts  of  the 
field,  is  composed  by  adding  together  a  multitude 
of  views.  When  this  painting  is  observed  in  its 
turn,  it  is  surveyed  as  a  real  landscape  would  be, 
and  apperceived  partially  and  piecemeal ;  although, 
of  course,  it  offers  much  less  wealth  of  material 
than  its  living  original,  and  is  therefore  vastly 
inferior. 

Only  the  extreme  of  what  is  called  impres- 
sionism tries  to  give  upon  canvas  one  absolute 
momentary  view;  the  result  is  that  when  the 
beholder  has  himself  actually  been  struck  by  that 
aspect,  the  picture  has  an  extraordinary  force  and 


FORM  135 

emotional  value  —  like  tlie  vivid  power  of  recalling 
the  x^ast  possessed  by  smells.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  such  a  work  is  empty  and  trivial  in  the 
extreme;  it  is  the  photograph  of  a  detached  im- 
pression, not  followed,  as  it  would  be  in  nature, 
by  many  variations  of  itself.  An  object  so  unusual 
is  often  unrecognizable,  if  the  vision  thus  unnatur- 
ally isolated  has  never  happened  to  come  vividly 
into  our  own  experience.  The  opposite  school  — 
what  might  be  called  discursive  landscape  painting 
—  collects  so  many  glimpses  and  gives  so  fully  the 
sum  of  our  positive  observations  of  a  particular 
scene,  that  its  work  is  sure  to  be  perfectly  intelli- 
gible and  plain.  If  it  seems  unreal  and  uninter- 
esting, that  is  because  it  is  formless,  like  the 
collective  object  it  represents,  while  it  lacks  that 
sensuous  intensity  and  movement  which  might 
have  made  the  reality  stimulating. 

The  landscape  contains,  of  course,  innumerable 
things  which  have  determinate  forms;  but  if  the 
attention  is  directed  specifically  to  them,  we  have 
no  longer  what,  by  a  curious  limitation  of  the 
word,  is  called  the  love  of  nature.  Not  very  long- 
ago  it  was  usual  for  painters  of  landscapes  to  intro- 
duce figures,  buildings,  or  ruins  to  add  some  human 
association  to  the  beauty  of  the  place.  Or,  if  wild- 
ness  and  desolation  were  to  be  pictured,  at  least 
one  weary  wayfarer  must  be  seen  sitting  upon  a 
broken  column.  He  might  wear  a  toga  and  then 
be  Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  The  land- 
scape without  figures  would  have  seemed  meaning- 
less;  the  spectator  would  have   sat   in   suspense 


136  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

awaiting  sometliing,  as  at  the  theatre  when  the 
curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage.  The  incTetermi- 
nateness  of  the  suggestions  of  an  unhumanized 
scene  was  then  felt  as  a  defect;  now  we  feel  it 
rather  as  an  exaltation.  We  need  to  be  free;  our 
emotion  suffices  us;  we  do  not  ask  for  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  object  which  interests  us  as  a  part  of 
ourselves.  We  should  blush  to  say  so  simple  and 
obvious  a  thing  as  that  to  us  "  the  mountains  are 
a  feeling  " ;  nor  should  we  think  of  apologizing  for 
our  romanticism  as  Byron  did : 

I  love  not  man  the  less  but  nature  more 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal, 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  vfith  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express. 

This  ability  to  rest  in  nature  unadorned  and  to 
find  entertainment  in  her  aspects,  is,  of  course,  a 
great  gain.  Esthetic  education  consists  in  train- 
ing ourselves  to  see  the  maximum  of  beauty.  To 
see  it  in  the  physical  world,  which  must  continu- 
ally be  about  us,  is  a  great  progress  toward  that 
marriage  of  the  imagination  with  the  reality  which 
is  the  goal  of  contemplation. 

While  we  gain  this  mastery  of  the  formless, 
however,  we  should  not  lose  the  more  necessary 
capacity  of  seeing  form  in  those  things  which 
happen  to  have  it.  In  respect  to  most  of  those 
things  which  are  determinate  as  well  as  natural,  we 
are  usually  in  that  state  of  sesthetic  unconscious- 
ness which  the  peasant  is  in  in  respect  to  the  land- 


FORM  137 

scape.  We  treat  human  life  and  its  environment 
with  the  same  utilitarian  eye  with  which  he  regards 
the  field  and  mountain.  That  is  beautiful  which 
is  expressive  of  convenience  and  wealth ;  the  rest 
is  indifferent.  If  we  mean  by  love  of  nature 
sesthetic  delight  in  the  world  in  which  we  casually 
live  (and  what  can  be  more  yiatural  than  man  and 
all  his  arts  ?),  we  may  say  that  the  absolute  love  of 
nature  hardly  exists  among  us.  What  we  love  is 
the  stimulation  of  our  own  personal  emotions  and 
dreams ;  and  landscape  appeals  to  us,  as  music  does 
to  those  who  have  no  sense  for  musical  form. 

There  would  seem  to  be  no  truth  in  tlie  saying 
that  the  ancients  loved  nature  less  than  we.  They 
loved  landscape  less  —  less,  at  least,  in  proportion 
to  their  love  of  the  definite  things  it  contained. 
The  vague  and  changing  effects  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  masses  of  mountains,  the  infinite  and  living 
complexity  of  forests,  did  not  fascinate  them. 
They  had  not  that  preponderant  taste  for  the  inde- 
terminate that  makes  the  landscape  a  favourite 
subject  of  contemplation.  But  love  of  nature,  and 
comprehension  of  her,  they  had  in  a  most  eminent 
degree;  in  fact,  they  actually  made  explicit  that 
objectification  of  our  own  soul  in  her,  which  for 
the  romantic  poet  remains  a  mere  vague  and  shift- 
ing suggestion.  What  are  the  celestial  gods,  the 
nymphs,  the  fauns,  the  dryads,  but  the  definite 
apperceptions  of  that  haunting  spirit  which  we 
think  we  see  in  the  sky,  the  mountains,  and  the 
woods?  We  may  think  that  our  vague  intuition 
grasps  the  truth  of  wliat  their  childish  imagination 


138  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

turned  into  a  fable.  But  our  belief,  if  it  is  one, 
is  just  as  fabulous,  just  as  much  a  projection  of 
human  nature  into  material  things;  and  if  we 
renounce  all  positive  conception  of  quasi-mental 
principles  in  nature,  and  reduce  our  moralizing  of 
her  to  a  poetic  expression  of  our  own  sensations, 
then  can  we  say  that  our  verbal  and  illusive  images 
are  comparable  as  representations  of  the  life  of 
nature  to  the  precision,  variety,  humour,  and 
beauty  of  the  Greek  mythology? 

Extensions  to         §  34.    It  may  uot  be  superfluous  to 

objects  usually  ,  •  i  ,     •  1  n    ^  ^ 

not  regarded  mcutiou  here  Certain  analogous  tie  Ids 
cestheticaiiy.  -^rjiere  the  human  mind  gives  a  series  of 
unstable  forms  to  objects  in  themselves  indetermi- 
nate.^ History,  philosophy,  natural  as  well  as 
moral,  and  religion  are  evidently  such  fields.  All 
theory  is  a  subjective  form  given  to  an  indetermi- 
nate material.  The  material  is  experience;  and 
although  each  part  of  experience  is,  of  course,  per- 
fectly definite  in  itself,  and  just  that  experience 
which  it  is,  yet  the  recollection  and  relating  to- 
gether of  the  successive  experiences  is  a  function 


1  When  we  speak  of  things  definite  in  themselves,  we  of 
coui'se  mean  things  made  definite  by  some  human  act  of  defi- 
nition. The  senses  are  instruments  that  define  and  differen- 
tiate sensation ;  and  the  result  of  one  operation  is  that  definite 
object  upon  which  the  next  operation  is  performed.  The  mem- 
ory, for  example,  classifies  in  time  what  the  senses  may  have 
classified  in  space.  "We  are  nowhere  concerned  witli  objects 
other  than  objects  of  human  experience,  and  the  epithets,  defi- 
nite and  indefinite,  refer  necessarily  to  their  relation  to  our 
various  categories  of  pcrcc^jtion  and  comprehension. 


FORM  1,39 

of  the  theoretical  faculty.  The  systematic  rela- 
tions of  things  in  time  and  space,  and  their 
dependence  upon  one  another,  are  the  work  of  our 
imagination.  Theory  can  therefore  never  have  the 
kind  of  truth  which  belongs  to  experience;  as 
Hobbes  has  it,  no  discourse  whatsoever  can  end 
in  absolute  knowledge  of  fact. 

It  is  conceivable  that  two  different  theories 
should  be  equally  true  in  respect  to  the  same  facts. 
All  that  is  required  is  that  they  should  be  equally 
complete  schemes  for  the  relation  and  prediction 
of  the  realities  they  deal  with.  The  choice  between 
them  would  be  an  arbitrary  one,  determined  by  per- 
sonal bias,  for  the  object  being  indeterminate,  its 
elements  can  be  apperceived  as  forming  all  kinds 
of  unities.  A  theory  is  a  form  of  apperception, 
and  in  applying  it  to  the  facts,  although  our  first 
concern  is  naturally  the  adequacy  of  our  instrument 
of  comprehension,  we  are  also  influenced,  more 
than  we  think,  by  the  ease  and  pleasure  with 
which  we  think  in  its  terms,  that  is,  by  its  beauty. 

The  case  of  two  alternative  theories  of  nature, 
both  exhaustive  and  adequate,  may  seem  somewhat 
imaginary.  The  human  mind  is,  indeed,  not  rich 
and  indeterminate  enough  to  drive,  as  the  saying 
is,  many  horses  abreast;  it  wishes  to  have  one 
general  scheme  of  conception  only,  under  which 
it  strives  to  bring  everything.  Yet  the  philoso- 
phers, who  are  the  scouts  of  common  sense,  have 
come  in  sight  of  this  possibility  of  a  variety  of 
methods  of  dealing  with  the  same  facts.  As  at 
the  basis  of  evolution  generally  there  are  many 


140  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

variations,  only  some  of  which  remain  fixed,  so  at 
the  origin  of  conception  there  are  many  schemes; 
these  are  simultaneously  developed,  and  at  most 
stages  of  thought  divide  the  intelligence  among 
themselves.  So  much  is  thought  of  on  one  prin- 
ciple —  say  mechanically  —  and  so  much  on  another 
—  say  teleologically.  In  those  minds  only  that 
have  a  speculative  turn,  that  is,  in  whom  the 
desire  for  unity  of  comprehension  outruns  prac- 
tical exigencies,  does  the  conflict  become  intoler- 
able. In  them  one  or  another  of  these  theories 
tends  to  swallow  all  experience,  but  is  commonly 
incapable  of  doing  so. 

The  final  victory  of  a  single  philosophy  is  not 
yet  won,  because  none  as  yet  has  proved  adequate 
to  all  experience.  If  ever  unity  should  be  attained, 
our  unanimity  would  not  indicate  that,  as  the  pop- 
ular fancy  conceives  it,  the  truth  had  been  discov- 
ered ;  it  would  only  indicate  that  the  human  mind 
had  found  a  definitive  way  of  classifying  its  ex- 
perience. Very  likely,  if  man  still  retained  his 
inveterate  habit  of  hypostatizing  his  ideas,  that 
definitive  scheme  would  be  regarded  as  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  objective  relations  of  things ;  but 
no  proof  that  it  was  so  would  ever  be  found,  nor 
even  any  hint  that  there  were  external  objects, 
not  to  speak  of  relations  between  them.  As  the 
objects  are  hypostatized  percepts,  so  the  relations 
are  hypostatized  processes  of  the  human  under- 
standing. 

To  have  reached  a  final  philosophy  would  be  only 
to  have  formulated  the  typical  and  satisfying  form 


FORM  141 

of  human  apperception ;  tlie  view  would  remain  a 
theory,  an  instrument  of  comprehension  and  survey 
fitted  to  the  human  eye ;  it  would  be  for  ever  utterly 
heterogeneous  from  fact,  utterly  unrepresentative 
of  any  of  those  experiences  which  it  would  artifi- 
cially connect  and  weave  into  a  pattern.  Mythology 
and  theology  are  the  most  striking  illustrations  of 
this  human  method  of  incorporating  much  diffuse 
experience  into  graphic  and  picturesque  ideas;  but 
steady  reflection  will  hardly  allow  us  to  see  any- 
thing else  in  the  theories  of  science  and  philosophy. 
These,  too,  are  creatures  of  our  intelligence,  and 
have  their  only  being  in  the  movement  of  our 
thought,  as  they  have  their  only  justification  in 
their  fitness  to  our  experience. 

Long  before  we  can  attain,  however,  the  ideal 
unification  of  experience  under  one  theory,  the 
various  fields  of  thought  demand  provisional  sur- 
veys ;  we  are  obliged  to  reflect  on  life  in  a  variety 
of  detached  and  unrelated  acts,  since  neither  can 
the  whole  material  of  life  be  ever  given  while  we 
still  live,  nor  can  that  which  is  given  be  impar- 
tially retained  in  the  human  memory.  When 
omniscience  was  denied  us,  we  were  endowed  with 
versatility.  The  picturesqueness  of  human  thought 
may  console  us  for  its  imperfection. 

History,  for  instance,  which  passes  for  the  ac- 
count of  facts,  is  in  reality  a  collection  of  apper- 
ceptions of  an  indeterminate  material;  for  even 
the  material  of  history  is  not  fact,  but  consists  of 
memories  and  words  subject  to  ever-varying  inter- 
pretation.    No    historian    can    be    without   bias, 


142  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

because  the  bias  defines  the  history.  The  mem- 
ory in  the  first  place  is  selective ;  official  and  other 
records  are  selective,  and  often  intentionally  par- 
tial. Monuments  and  ruins  remain  by  chance. 
And  when  the  historian  has  set  himself  to  study 
these  few  relics  of  the  past,  the  work  of  his  own 
intelligence  begins.  He  must  have  some  guiding 
interest.  A  history  is  not  an  indiscriminate 
register  of  every  knoAvn  event;  a  file  of  news- 
papers is  not  an  inspiration  of  Clio.  A  history 
is  a  view  of  the  fortunes  of  some  institution  or 
person;  it  traces  the  development  of  some  inter- 
est. This  interest  furnishes  the  standard  by 
which  the  facts  are  selected,  and  their  importance 
gauged.  Then,  after  the  facts  are  thus  chosen, 
marshalled,  and  emphasized,  comes  the  indication 
of  causes  and  relations;  and  in  this  part  of  his 
work  the  historian  plunges  avowedly  into  specu- 
lation, and  becomes  a  philosophical  poet.  Every- 
thing will  then  depend  on  his  genius,  on  his 
principles,  on  his  passions, —  in  a  word,  on  his 
apperceptive  forms.  And  the  value  of  history  is 
similar  to  that  of  poetry,  and  varies  with  the 
beauty,  power,  and  adequacy  of  the  form  in  which 
the  indeterminate  material  of  human  life  is  pre- 
sented. 

Further  dan-  §  35.  The  f  ouduess  of  a  race  or  epoch 
terminateness.  ^^^  ^^J  ki^d  of  cffcct  is  a  natural  cxprcS" 
sion  of  temperament  and  circumstances, 
and  cannot  be  blamed  or  easily  corrected.  At  the 
same  time  we  may  stop  to  consider  some  of  the  dis- 


FORM  143 

advantages  of  a  taste  for  the  indeterminate.  We 
shall  be  registering  a  truth  and  at  the  same  time, 
perhaps,  giving  some  encouragement  to  that  rebel- 
lion which  we  may  inwardly  feel  against  this  too 
prevalent  manner.  The  indeterminate  is  by  its 
nature  ambiguous;  it  is  therefore  obscure  and 
uncertain  in  its  effect,  and  if  used,  as  in  many 
arts  it  often  is,  to  convey  a  meaning,  must  fail 
to  do  so  unequivocally.  Where  a  meaning  is  not 
to  be  conveyed,  as  in  landscape,  architecture,  or 
music,  the  illusiveness  of  the  form  is  not  so  objec- 
tionable :  although  in  all  these  objects  the  tendency 
to  observe  forms  and  to  demand  them  is  a  sign  of 
increasing  appreciation.  The  ignorant  fail  to  see 
the  forms  of  music,  architecture,  and  landscape, 
and  therefore  are  insensible  to  relative  rank  and 
technical  values  in  these  spheres ;  they  regard  the 
objects  only  as  so  many  stimuli  to  emotion,  as 
soothing  or  enlivening  influences.  But  the  sensu- 
ous and  associative  values  of  these  things  —  espe- 
cially of  music  —  are  so  great,  that  even  without 
an  appreciation  of  form  considerable  beauty  may 
be  found  in  them. 

In  literature,  however,  where  the  sensuous  value 
of  the  words  is  comparatively  small,  indeterminate- 
ness  of  form  is  fatal  to  beauty,  and,  if  extreme, 
even  to  expressiveness.  For  meaning  is  conveyed 
by  the  form  and  order  of  words,  not  by  the  words 
themselves,  and  no  precision  of  meaning  can  be 
reached  without  precision  of  style.  Therefore 
no  respectable  writer  is  voluntarily  obscure  in  the 
structure  of  his  phrases  —  that  is  an  abuse  reserved 


144  THE  SENSE  OF   BEAUTY 

for  the  clowns  of  literary  fasliion.  But  a  book  is 
a  larger  sentence,  and  if  it  is  formless  it  fails  to 
mean  anything,  for  the  same  reason  that  an  un- 
formed collection  of  words  means  nothing.  The 
chapters  and  verses  may  have  said  something,  as 
loose  words  may  have  a  known  sense  and  a  tone ; 
but  the  book  will  have  brought  no  message. 

In  fact,  the  absence  of  form  in  composition  has 
two  stages:  that  in  which,  as  in  the  works  of 
Emerson,  significant  fragments  are  collected,  and 
no  system,  no  total  thought,  constructed  out  of 
them;  and  secondly,  that  in  which,  as  in  the  writ- 
ings of  the  Symbolists  of  our  time,  all  the  sig- 
nificance is  kept  back  in  the  individual  words,  or 
even  in  the  syllables  that  compose  them.  This 
mosaic  of  word-values  has,  indeed,  a  possibility  of 
effect,  for  the  absence  of  form  does  not  destroy 
materials,  but,  as  we  have  observed,  rather  allows 
the  attention  to  remain  fixed  upon  them;  and  for 
this  reason  absence  of  sense  is  a  means  of  accentu- 
ating beauty  of  sound  and  verbal  suggestion.  But 
this  example  shows  how  the  tendency  to  neglect 
structure  in  literature  is  a  tendency  to  surrender 
the  use  of  language  as  an  instrument  of  thought. 
The  descent  is  easy  from  ambiguity  to  meaning- 
lessness. 

The  indeterminate  in  form  is  also  indeterminate 
in  value.  It  needs  completion  by  the  mind  of  the 
observer  and  as  this  completion  differs,  the  value 
of  the  result  must  vary.  An  indeterminate  object 
is  therefore  beautiful  to  him  who  can  make  it  so, 
and  ugly  to  him  who  cannot.     It  appeals  to  a  few, 


FORM  145 

and  to  them  diversely.  In  fact,  the  observer's 
own  mind  is  the  storehouse  from  which  the  beau- 
tiful form  has  to  be  drawn.  If  the  form  is  not 
there,  it  cannot  be  applied  to  the  half-finished 
object;  it  is  like  asking  a  man  without  skill  to 
complete  another  man's  composition.  The  inde- 
terminate object  therefore  requires  an  active  and 
well-equipped  mind,  and  is  otherwise  without 
value. 

It  is  furthermore  unprofitable  even  to  the  mind 
which  takes  it  up;  it  stimulates  that  mind  to 
action,  but  it  presents  it  with  no  new  object. 
We  can  respond  only  with  those  forms  of  apper- 
ception which  we  already  are  accustomed  to.  A 
formless  object  cannot  inform  the  mind,  cannot 
mould  it  to  a  new  habit.  That  happens  only  when 
the  data,  by  their  clear  determination,  compel  the 
eye  and  imagination  to  follow  new  paths  and  see 
new  relations.  Then  we  are  introduced  to  a  new- 
beauty,  and  enriched  to  that  extent.  But  the  inde- 
terminate, like  music  to  the  sentimental,  is  a  vague 
stimulus.  It  calls  forth  at  random  such  ideas  and 
memories  as  may  lie  to  hand,  stirring  the  mind, 
but  leaving  it  undisciplined  and  unacquainted  with 
any  new  object.  This  stirring,  like  that  of  the 
pool  of  Bethesda,  may  indeed  have  its  virtue.  A 
creative  mind,  already  rich  in  experience  and  obser- 
vation, may,  under  the  influence  of  such  a  stimu- 
lus, dart  into  a  new  thought,  and  give  birth  to  that 
with  which  it  is  already  pregnant ;  but  the  fertil- 
izing seed  came  from  elsewhere,  from  study  and 
admiration  of  those  definite  forms  which  nature 


146  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

contains,  or  which  art,  in  imitation  of  nature,  has 
conceived  and  brought  to  perfection. 


Illusion  of  §  36.    The  great  advantage,  then,   of 

infinite 
fection. 


infinite  pet-      indeterminate  organ  ization  is  that  it  cul- 


tivates that  spontaneity,  intelligence, 
and  imagination  without  which  many  important 
objects  would  remain  unintelligible,  and  because 
unintelligible,  uninteresting.  The  beauty  of  land- 
scape, the  forms  of  religion  and  science,  the  types 
of  human  nature  itself,  are  due  to  this  appercep- 
tive gift.  Without  it  we  should  have  a  chaos ;  but 
its  patient  and  ever-fresh  activity  carves  out  of  the 
fluid  material  a  great  variety  of  forms.  An  object 
which  stimulates  us  to  this  activity,  therefore, 
seems  often  to  be  more  sublime  and  beautiful  than 
one  which  presents  to  us  a  single  unchanging  form, 
however  perfect.  There  seems  to  be  a  life  and 
infinity  in  the  incomplete,  which  the  determinate 
excludes  by  its  own  completeness  and  petrifaction. 
And  yet  the  elfort  in  this  very  activity  is  to  reach 
determination ;  we  can  only  see  beauty  in  so  far  as 
we  introduce  form.  The  instability  of  the  form 
can  be  no  advantage  to  a  work  of  art;  the  deter- 
minate keeps  constantly  what  the  indeterminate 
reaches  only  in  those  moments  in  which  the  ob- 
server's imagination  is  especially  propitious.  If 
we  feel  a  certain  disappointment  in  the  monotonous 
limits  of  a  definite  form  and  its  eternal,  unsympa- 
thizing  message,  might  we  not  feel  much  more  the 
melancholy  transiency  of  those  glimpses  of  beauty 
which  elude  us  in  the  indeterminate?     Might  not 


FORM  147 

the  torment  and  uncertainty  of  this  contemplation, 
with  the  self-consciousness  it  probably  involves, 
more  easily  tire  us  than  the  quiet  companionship 
of  a  constant  object?  May  we  not  prefer  the 
unchangeable  to  the  irrecoverable? 

We  may;  and  the  preference  is  one  which  we 
should  all  more  clearly  feel,  were  it  not  for  an 
illusion,  proper  to  the  romantic  temperament, 
which  lends  a  mysterious  charm  to  things  which 
are  indefinite  and  indefinable.  It  is  the  sugges- 
tion of  infinite  perfection.  In  reality,  perfection 
is  a  synonym  of  finitude.  Neither  in  nature  nor 
in  the  fancy  can  anything  be  perfect  except  by 
realizing  a  definite  type,  which  excludes  all  varia- 
tion, and  contrasts  sharply  with  every  other  possi- 
bility of  being.  There  is  no  perfection  apart  from 
a  form  of  apperception  or  type;  and  there  are  as 
many  kinds  of  perfection  as  there  are  types  or 
forms  of  apperception  latent  in  the  mind. 

Now  these  various  perfections  are  mutually 
exclusive.  Only  in  a  kind  of  aesthetic  orgy  —  in 
the  madness  of  an  intoxicated  imagination  —  can 
we  confuse  them.  As  the  Koman  emperor  wished 
that  the  Eoman  people  had  but  a  single  neck,  to 
murder  them  at  one  blow,  so  we  may  sometimes 
wish  that  all  beauties  had  but  one  form,  that  we 
might  behold  them  together.  But  in  the  nature  of 
things  beauties  are  incompatible.  The  spring  can- 
not coexist  with  the  autumn,  nor  day  with  night; 
what  is  beautiful  in  a  child  is  hideous  in  a  man, 
and  vice  versa;  every  age,  every  country,  each  sex, 
has  a  peculiar  beauty,  finite  and  incommunicable ; 


148  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

the  better  it  is  attained  the  more  completely  it 
excludes  every  other.  The  same  is  evidently  true 
of  schools  of  art,  of  styles  and  languages,  and  of 
every  effect  whatsoever.  It  exists  by  its  finitude 
and  is  great  in  proportion  to  its  determination. 

But  there  is  a  loose  and  somewhat  helpless  state 
of  mind  in  which  while  we  are  incapable  of  realiz- 
ing any  particular  thought  or  vision  in  its  perfect 
clearness  and  absolute  beauty,  we  nevertheless  feel 
its  haunting  presence  in  the  background  of  con- 
sciousness. And  one  reason  why  the  idea  cannot 
emerge  from  that  obscurity  is  that  it  is  not  alone 
in  the  brain;  a  thousand  other  ideals,  a  thousand 
other  plastic  tendencies  of  thought,  simmer  there 
in  confusion;  and  if  any  definite  image  is  presented 
in  response  to  that  vague  agitation  of  our  soul,  we 
feel  its  inadequacy  to  our  need  in  spite  of,  or  per- 
haps on  account  of,  its  own  particular  perfection. 
We  then  say  that  the  classic  does  not  satisfy  us, 
and  that  the  "  Grecian  cloys  us  with  his  perfect- 
ness."  We  are  not  capable  of  that  concentrated 
and  serious  attention  to  one  thing  at  a  time  which 
would  enable  us  to  sink  into  its  being,  and  enjoy 
the  intrinsic  harmonies  of  its  form,  and  the  bliss 
of  its  immanent  particular  heaven;  we  flounder  in 
the  vague,  but  at  the  same  time  we  are  full  of 
yearnings,  of  half-thoughts  and  semi-visions,  and 
the  upward  tendency  and  exaltation  of  our  mood 
is  emphatic  and  overpowering  in  proportion  to  our 
incapacity  to  think,  speak,  or  imagine. 

The  sum  of  our  incoherences  has,  however,  an 
imposing  volume  and  even,  perhaps,  a  vague,  gen- 


FORM  149 

eral  direction.  We  feel  ourselves  laden  with  an 
infinite  burden;  and  what  delights  us  most  and 
seems  to  us  to  come  nearest  to  the  ideal  is  not 
what  embodies  any  one  possible  form,  but  that 
which,  by  embodying  none,  suggests  many,  and 
stirs  the  mass  of  our  inarticulate  imagination  with 
a  pervasive  thrill.  Each  thing,  without  being  a 
beauty  in  itself,  by  stimulating  our  indeterminate 
emotion,  seems  to  be  a  hint  and  expression  of 
infinite  beauty.  That  infinite  perfection  which 
cannot  be  realized,  because  it  is  self -contradictory, 
may  be  thus  suggested,  and  on  account  of  this 
suggestion  an  indeterminate  effect  may  be  regarded 
as  higher,  more  significant,  and  more  beautiful 
than  any  determinate  one. 

The  illusion,  however,  is  obvious.  The  infinite 
perfection  suggested  is  an  absurdity.  What  exists 
is  a  vague  emotion,  the  objects  of  which,  if  they 
could  emerge  from  the  chaos  of  a  confused  imagi- 
nation, would  turn  out  to  be  a  multitude  of  differ- 
ently beautiful  determinate  things.  This  emotion 
of  infinite  perfection  is  the  materia  prima  ~  rucUs 
indigestaque  moles  —  out  of  which  attention,  inspi- 
ration, and  art  can  bring  forth  an  infinity  of  partic- 
ular perfections.  Every  sesthetic  success,  whether 
in  contemplation  or  production,  is  the  birth  of  one 
of  these  possibilities  with  which  the  sense  of  infi- 
nite perfection  is  pregnant.  A  work  of  art  or  an 
act  of  observation  which  remains  indeterminate  is, 
therefore,  a  failure,  however  much  it  may  stir  our 
emotion.  It  is  a  failure  for  two  reasons.  In  the 
first  place  this  emotion  is  seldom  wholly  pleasant; 


150  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

it  is  disquieting  and  perplexing;  it  brings  a  desire 
rather  than  a  satisfaction.  And  in  the  second 
place,  the  emotion,  not  being  embodied,  fails  to 
constitute  the  beauty  of  anything;  and  what  we 
have  is  merely  a  sentiment,  a  consciousness  that 
values  are  or  might  be  there,  but  a  failure  to  extri- 
cate those  values,  or  to  make  them  explicit  and 
recognizable  in  an  appropriate  object. 

These  gropings  after  beauty  have  their  worth  as 
signs  of  aesthetic  vitality  and  intimations  of  future 
possible  accomplishment;  but  in  themselves  they 
are  abortive,  and  mark  the  impotence  of  the 
imagination.  Sentimentalism  in  the  observer  and 
romanticism  in  the  artist  are  examples  of  this 
aesthetic  incapacity.  Whenever  beauty  is  really 
seen  and  loved,  it  has  a  definite  embodiment :  the 
eye  has  precision,  the  work  has  style,  and  the 
object  has  perfection.  The  kind  of  perfection 
may  indeed  be  new;  and  if  the  discovery  of  new 
perfections  is  to  be  called  romanticism,  then 
romanticism  is  the  beginning  of  all  aesthetic  life. 
But  if  by  romanticism  we  mean  indulgence  in  con- 
fused suggestion  and  in  the  exhibition  of  turgid 
force,  then  there  is  evidently  need  of  education,  of 
attentive  labour,  to  disentangle  the  beauties  so 
vaguely  felt,  and  rive  each  its  adequate  embodi- 
ment. The  breadtii  of  our  inspiration  need  not  be 
lost  in  this  process  of  clarification,  for  there  is  no 
limit  to  the  number  and  variet}^  of  forms  which 
the  world  may  be  made  to  wear;  only,  if  it  is  to 
be  appreciated  as  beautiful  and  not  merely  felt  as 
unutterable,  it  must  be  seen  as  a  kingdom  of  forms. 


FORM  151 

Thus  the  works  of  Shakespere  give  us  a  great  vari- 
ety, with  a  frequent  marvellous  precision  of  char- 
acterization, and  the  forms  of  his  art  are  definite 
although  its  scope  is  great. 

But  by  a  curious  anomaly,  we  are  often  expected 
to  see  the  greatest  expressiveness  in  what  remains 
indeterminate,  and  in  reality  expresses  nothing. 
As  we  have  already  observed,  the  sense  of  pro- 
fundity and  significance  is  a  very  detachable 
emotion;  it  can  accompany  a  confused  jumble  of 
promptings  quite  as  easily  as  it  can  a  thorough 
comprehension  of  reality.  The  illusion  of  infinite 
perfection  is  peculiarly  apt  to  produce  this  sensa- 
tion. That  illusion  arises  by  the  simultaneous 
awakening  of  many  incipient  thoughts  and  dim 
ideas;  it  stirs  the  depths  of  the  mind  as  a  wind 
stirs  the  thickets  of  a  forest;  and  the  unusual 
consciousness  of  the  life  and  longing  of  the  soul, 
brought  by  that  gust  of  feeling,  makes  us  recog- 
nize in  the  object  a  singular  power,  a  m^^sterious 
meaning. 

But  the  feeling  of  significance  signifies  little. 
All  we  have  in  this  case  is  a  potentiality  of  imagi- 
nation; and  only  when  this  potentiality  begins  to 
be  realized  in  definite  ideas,  does  a  real  meaning, 
or  any  object  which  that  meaning  can  mean,  arise 
in  the  mind.  The  highest  esthetic  good  is  not 
that  vague  potentiality,  nor  that  contradictory, 
infinite  perfection  so  strongly  desired;  it  is  the 
greatest  number  and  variety  of  finite  perfections. 
To  learn  to  see  in  nature  and  to  enshrine  in  the 
arts   the   typical  forms   of  things;    to  study  and 


152  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

recognize  their  variations;  to  domesticate  the  im- 
agination in  the  world,  so  that  everywhere  beauty 
can  be  seen,  and  a  hint  found  for  artistic  creation, 
—  that  is  the  goal  of  contemplation.  Progress  lies 
in  the  direction  of  discrimination  and  precision, 
not  in  that  of  formless  emotion  and  reverie. 

Organized  §  37.    The  form  of  the  material  world 

source  of  ap-  is  in  ouc  seusc  always  perfectly  definite, 
perceptive        siucc  the  particles  that  compose  it  are 

forms;  ex-  ^  ^  ^    ^ 

ample  of  at  cacli  moment  in  a  given  relative  posi- 

scuipture.         ^^^^ ,  ^^^^  ^  world  that  had  no  other  form 

than  that  of  such  a  constellation  of  atoms  would 
remain  chaotic  to  our  perception,  because  we  should 
not  be  able  to  survey  it  as  a  whole,  or  to  keep  our 
attention  suspended  evenly  over  its  innumerable 
parts.  According  to  evolutionary  theory,  mechan- 
ical necessity  has,  however,  brought  about  a  distri- 
bution and  aggregation  of  elements  such  as,  for  our 
purposes,  constitutes  individual  tilings.  Certain 
systems  of  atoms  move  together  as  units ;  and  these 
organisms  reproduce  themselves  and  recur  so  often 
in  our  environment,  that  our  senses  become  accus- 
tomed to  view  their  parts  together.  Their  form 
becomes  a  natural  and  recognizable  one.  An  order 
and  sequence  is  established  in  our  imagination  by 
virtue  of  the  order  and  sequence  in  which  the  cor- 
responding impressions  have  come  to  our  senses. 
We  can  remember,  reproduce,  and  in  reproducing 
vary,  by  kaleidoscopic  tricks  of  the  fancy,  the  forms 
in  which  our  perceptions  have  come. 

The  mechanical  organization  of  external  nature  is 


FORM  153 

thus  the  source  of  apperceptive  forms  in  the  mind. 
Did  not  sensation,  by  a  constant  repetition  of  cer- 
tain sequences,  and  a  recurring  exactitude  of 
mathematical  relations,  keep  our  fancy  clear  and 
fresh,  we  should  fall  into  an  imaginative  lethargy. 
Idealization  would  degenerate  into  indistinctness, 
and,  by  the  dulling  of  our  memory,  we  should  dream 
a  world  daily  more  poor  and  vague. 

This  process  is  periodically  observable  in  the 
history  of  the  arts.  The  way  in  which  the  human 
figure,  for  instance,  is  depicted,  is  an  indication  of 
the  way  in  which  it  is  apperceived.  The  arts  give 
back  only  so  much  of  nature  as  the  human  eye  has 
been  able  to  master.  The  most  primitive  stage  of 
drawing  and  sculpture  presents  man  with  his  arms 
and  legs,  his  ten  fingers  and  ten  toes,  branching  out 
into  mid-air ;  the  apperception  of  the  body  has  been 
evidently  practical  and  successive,  and  the  artist 
sets  down  what  he  knows  rather  than  any  of  the 
particular  perceptions  that  conveyed  that  knowl- 
edge. Those  perceptions  are  merged  and  lost  in 
the  haste  to  reach  the  practically  useful  concept  of 
the  object.  By  a  naive  expression  of  the  same  prin- 
ciple, we  find  in  some  Assyrian  drawings  the  eye 
seen  from  the  front  introduced  into  a  face  seen  in 
profile,  each  element  being  represented  in  that  form 
in  which  it  was  most  easily  observed  and  remem- 
bered. The  development  of  Greek  sculpture  fur- 
nishes a  good  example  of  the  gradual  penetration 
of  nature  into  the  mind,  of  the  slowly  enriched 
apperception  of  the  object.  The  quasi-Egyptian 
stiffness  melts  away,  first  from  the  bodies  of  the 


154  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

minor  figures,  afterwards  of  those  of  the  gods,  and 
finally  the  face  is  varied,  and  the  hieratic  smile 
almost  disappears.^ 

But  this  progress  has  a  near  limit;  once  the  most 
beautiful  and  inclusive  apperception  reached,  once 
the  best  form  caught  at  its  best  moment,  the  artist 
seems  to  have  nothing  more  to  do.  To  reproduce 
the  imperfections  of  individuals  seems  wrong,  when 
beauty,  after  all,  is  the  thing  desired.  And  the 
ideal,  as  caught  by  the  master's  inspiration,  is 
more  beautiful  than  anything  his  pupils  can  find 
for  themselves  in  nature.  From  its  summit,  the 
art  therefore  declines  in  one  of  two  directions. 
It  either  becomes  academic,  forsakes  the  study  of 
nature,  and  degenerates  into  empty  convention,  or 
else  it  becomes  ignoble,  forsakes  beauty,  and  sinks 
into  a  tasteless  and  unimaginative  technique.  The 
latter  was  the  course  of  sculpture  in  ancient  times, 
the  former,  with  moments  of  reawakening,  has  been 
its  dreadful  fate  among  the  moderns. 

This  rea^vakening  has  come  Avhenever  there  has 
been  a  return  to  nature,  for  a  new  form  of  apper- 
ception and  a  new  ideal.  Of  this  return  there  is 
continual  need  in  all  the  arts ;  without  it  our  apper- 
ceptions grow  thin  and  worn,  and  subject  to  the 
sway  of  tradition  and  fashion.  We  continue  to 
judge  about  beauty,  but  we  give  up  looking  for  it. 

1  In  the  ^gina  marbles  the  wounded  and  dying  warriors  still 
wear  this  Buddha-like  expression :  their  bodies,  although  con- 
ventional, show  a  great  progress  in  observation,  compared  with 
the  impossible  Athena  in  the  centre  with  her  sacred  feet  in 
Egyptian  profile  and  her  owl-like  visage. 


FORM  155 

The  remedy  is  to  go  back  to  the  reality,  to  study 
it  patiently,  to  allow  new  aspects  of  it  to  work  upon 
the  mind,  sink  into  it,  and  beget  there  an  imagina- 
tive offspring  after  their  own  kind.  Then  a  new  art 
can  appear,  which,  having  the  same  origin  in  admi- 
ration for  nature  which  the  old  art  had,  may  hope 
to  attain  the  same  excellence  in  a  new  direction. 

In  fact,  one  of  the  dangers  to  which  a  modern 
artist  is  exposed  is  the  seduction  of  his  prede- 
cessors. The  gropings  of  our  muse,  the  distracted 
experiments  of  our  architecture,  often  arise  from 
the  attraction  of  some  historical  school;  we  can- 
not work  out  our  own  style  because  we  are  ham- 
pered by  the  beauties  of  so  many  others.  The  result 
is  an  eclecticism,  which,  in  spite  of  its  great  histori- 
cal and  psychological  interest,  is  without  aesthetic 
unity  or  permanent  power  to  please.  Thus  the 
study  of  many  schools  of  art  may  become  an  obsta- 
cle to  proficiency  in  any. 

§  38.    Utility  (or,  as  it  is  now  called,    utility  tiie 
adaptation,   and  natural  selection)  or-  organization 
ganizes  the  material  world  into  definite  '"  "«^"''e- 
species  and  individuals.     Only  certain  aggregations 
of  matter  are  in  equilibrium  with  the  prevailing 
forces  of  the  environment.     Gravity,  for  instance, 
is  in  itself  a  chaotic  force;   it  pulls  all  particles 
indiscriminately  together  without  reference  to  the 
wholes  into  which  the  human  eye  may  have  grouped 
them.     But  the  result  is  not  chaos,  because  matter 
arranged  in  some  ways  is  welded  together  by  the 
very  tendency    which   disintegrates    it   when   ar- 


156  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ranged  iia  other  forms.  These  forms,  selected  by 
their  congruity  with  gravity,  are  therefore  fixed  in 
nature,  and  become  types.  Thus  the  weight  of  the 
stones  keeps  the  pyramid  standing :  here  a  certain 
shape  has  become  a  guarantee  of  permanence  in  the 
presence  of  a  force  in  itself  mechanical  and  undis- 
criminating.  It  is  the  utility  of  the  pyramidal 
form  —  its  fitness  to  stand  —  that  has  made  it  a 
type  in  building.  The  Egyptians  merely  repeated 
a  process  that  they  might  have  observed  going  on  of 
itself  in  nature,  who  builds  a  pyramid  in  every  hill, 
not  indeed  because  she  wishes  to,  or  because  pyra- 
mids are  in  any  way  an  object  of  her  action,  but 
because  she  has  no  force  which  can  easily  dislodge 
matter  that  finds  itself  in  that  shape. 

Such  an  accidental  stability  of  structure  is,  in  this 
moving  world,  a  sufficient  principle  of  permanence 
and  individuality.  The  same  mechanical  principles, 
in  more  complex  applications,  insure  the  persistence 
of  animal  forms  and  prevent  any  permanent  devia- 
tion from  them.  What  is  called  the  principle  of 
self-preservation,  and  the  final  causes  and  sub- 
stantial forms  of  the  Aristotelian  philosophy,  are 
descriptions  of  the  result  of  this  operation.  The 
tendency  of  everything  to  maintain  and  propagate 
its  nature  is  simply  the  inertia  of  a  stable  juxtapo- 
sition of  elements,  which  are  not  enough  disturbed 
by  ordinary  accidents  to  lose  their  equilibrium; 
while  the  incidence  of  a  too  great  disturbance 
causes  that  disruption  we  call  death,  or  that  varia- 
tion of  type,  which,  on  account  of  its  incapacity 
to  establish  itself  permanently,  we  call  abnormal. 


FORM  157 

Nature  thus  organizes  lierself  into  recognizable 
species;  and  the  aesthetic  eye,  studying  her  forms, 
tends,  as  we  have  already  shown,  to  bring  the  type 
within  even  narrower  limits  than  do  the  external 
exigencies  of  life. 

§  39.  This  natural  harmony  between  The  relation  of 
utility  and  beauty,  when  its  origin  is  ^ga„%*° 
not  understood,  is  of  course  the  subject 
of  much  perplexed  and  perplexing  theory.  Some- 
times we  are  told  that  utility  is  itself  the  essence 
of  beauty,  that  is,  that  our  consciousness  of  the 
practical  advantages  of  certain  forms  is  the  ground 
of  our  aesthetic  admiration  of  them.  The  horse's 
legs  are  said  to  be  beautiful  because  they  are  fit  to 
run,  the  eye  because  it  is  made  to  see,  the  house 
because  it  is  convenient  to  live  in.  An  amusing 
application  —  which  might  pass  for  a  reductio  ad 
absurdiim  —  of  this  dense  theory  is  put  by  Xeno- 
phon  into  the  mouth  of  Socrates.  Comparing  him- 
self with  a  youth  present  at  the  same  banquet,  who 
was  about  to  receive  the  prize  of  beauty,  Socrates 
declares  himself  more  beautiful  and  more  worthy 
of  the  crown.  For  utility  makes  beauty,  and  eyes 
bulging  out  from  the  head  like  his  are  the  most 
advantageous  for  seeing;  nostrils  wide  and  open 
to  the  air,  like  his,  most  appropriate  for  smell; 
and  a  mouth  large  and  voluminous,  like  his,  best 
fitted  for  both  eating  and  kissing.^ 

Now  since  these  things  are,  in  fact,  hideous,  the 
theory  that  shows  they  ought  to  be  beautiful,   is 

1  Symposium  of  Xenophon,  V. 


158  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

vain  and  ridiculous.  But  that  theory  contains  this 
truth :  that  had  the  utility  of  Socratic  features  been 
so  great  that  men  of  all  other  type  must  have  per- 
ished, Socrates  would  have  been  beautiful.  He 
would  have  represented  the  human  type.  The  eye 
would  have  been  then  accustomed  to  that  form,  the 
imagination  would  have  taken  it  as  the  basis  of  its 
refinements,  and  accentuated  its  naturally  effective 
points.  The  beautiful  does  not  depend  on  the  use- 
ful; it  is  constituted  by  the- imagination  in  igno- 
rance and  contempt  of  practical  advantage ;  but  it  is 
not  independent  of  the  necessary,  for  the  necessary 
must  also  be  the  habitual  and  consequently  the  basis 
of  the  tj])e,  and  of  all  its  imaginative  variations. 

There  are,  moreover,  at  a  late  and  derivative  stage 
in  our  sesthetic  judgment,  certain  cases  in  which  the 
knowledge  of  fitness  and  utility  enters  into  our 
sense  of  beauty.  But  it  does  so  very  indirectly, 
rather  by  convincing  us  that  we  should  tolerate 
what  practical  conditions  have  imposed  on  an 
artist,  by  arousing  admiration  of  his  ingenuity,  or 
by  suggesting  the  interesting  things  themselves 
with  which  the  object  is  known  to  be  connected. 
Thus  a  cottage-chimney,  stout  and  tall,  with  the 
smoke  floating  from  it,  pleases  because  we  fancy 
it  to  mean  a  hearth,  a  rustic  meal,  and  a  comfort- 
able family.  But  that  is  all  extraneous  association. 
The  most  ordinary  way  in  which  utility  affects  us 
is  negatively;  if  we  know  a  thing  to  be  useless 
and  fictitious,  the  uncomfortable  haunting  sense  of 
waste  and  trickery  prevents  all  enjoyment,  and 
therefore  banishes  beauty.      But  this  is  also  an 


FORM  159 

adventitious  complication.  The  intrinsic  value  of 
a  form  is  in  no  way  affected  by  it. 

Opposed  to  this  utilitarian  theory  stands  the 
metaphysical  one  that  would  make  the  beauty  or 
intrinsic  Tightness  of  things  the  source  of  their 
efficiency  and  of  their  power  to  survive.  Taken 
literally,  as  it  is  generally  meant,  this  idea  must, 
from  our  point  of  view,  appear  preposterous. 
Beauty  and  Tightness  are  relative  to  our  judgment 
and  emotion;  they  in  no  sense  exist  in  nature  or 
preside  over  her.  She  everywhere  appears  to  move 
by  mechanical  law.  The  types  of  things  exist  by 
what,  in  relation  to  our  approbation,  is  mere  chance, 
and  it  is  our  faculties  that  must  adapt  themselves 
to  our  environment  and  not  our  environment  to  our 
faculties.  Such  is  the  naturalistic  point  of  view 
which  we  have  adopted. 

To  say,  however,  that  beauty  is  in  some  sense 
the  ground  of  practical  fitness,  need  not  seem  to  us 
wholly  unmeaning.  The  fault  of  the  Platonists 
who  say  things  of  this  sort  is  seldom  that  of  empti- 
ness. They  have  an  intuition;  they  have  some- 
times a  strong  sense  of  the  facts  of  consciousness. 
But  they  turn  their  discoveries  into  so  many  reve- 
lations, and  the  veil  of  the  infinite  and  absolute 
soon  covers  their  little  light  of  specific  truth. 
Sometimes,  after  patient  digging,  the  student  comes 
upon  the  treasure  of  some  simple  fact,  some  com- 
mon experience,  beneath  all  their  mystery  and  unc- 
tion. And  so  it  may  be  in  this  case.  If  v.^e  make 
allowances  for  the  tendency  to  express  experience 
in  allegory  and  myth,  we  shall  see  that  the  idea 


IGO  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  beauty  and  rationality  presiding  over  nature 
and  guiding  her,  as  it  were,  for  their  own  greater 
glory,  is  a  projection  and  a  writing  large  of  a  psy- 
chological principle. 

The  mind  that  perceives  nature  is  the  same  that 
understands  and  enjoys  her;  indeed,  these  three 
functions  are  really  elements  of  one  process.  There 
is  therefore  in  the  mere  perceptibility  of  a  thing  a 
certain  prophecy  of  its  beauty;  if  it  were  not  on 
the  road  to  beauty,  if  it  had  no  approach  to  fitness 
to  our  faculties  of  perception,  the  object  would 
remain  eternally  unperceived.  The  sense,  there- 
fore, that  the  whole  world  is  made  to  be  food  for 
the  soul;  that  beauty  is  not  only  its  own,  but  all 
things'  excuse  for  being;  that  universal  aspiration 
towards  perfection  is  the  key  and  secret  of  the 
world,  —  that  sense  is  the  poetical  reverberation  of 
a  psychological  fact  —  of  the  fact  that  our  mind  is 
an  organism  tending  to  unity,  to  unconsciousness 
of  what  is  refractory  to  its  action,  and  to  assimila- 
tion and  sympathetic  transformation  of  what  is 
kept  within  its  sphere.  The  idea  that  nature  could 
be  governed  by  an  aspiration  towards  beauty  is, 
therefore,  to  be  rejected  as  a  confusion,  but  at  the 
same  time  we  must  confess  that  this  confusion  is 
founded  on  a  consciousness  of  the  subjective  rela- 
tion between  the  perceptibility,  rationality,  and 
beauty  of  things. 


utility  the 


§  40.  This  subjective  relation  is,  how- 
principieof      evcr,   exceedingly  loose.     Most  things 

organization  •       i  -i  •        i 

in  the  arts.       that  are  perceivable  are  not  perceived 


FORM  IGl 

SO  distinctly  as  to  be  intelligible,  nor  so  delight- 
fully as  to  be  beautiful.  If  our  eye  had  infinite 
penetration,  or  our  imagination  infinite  elasticity, 
this  would  not  be  the  case;  to  see  would  then  be 
to  understand  and  to  enjoy.  As  it  is,  the  degree 
of  determination  needed  for  perception  is  much 
less  than  that  needed  for  comprehension  or  ideality. 
Hence  there  is  room  for  hypothesis  and  for  art.  As 
hypothesis  organizes  experiences  imaginatively  in 
ways  in  which  observation  has  not  been  able  to  do, 
so  art  organizes  objects  in  ways  to  which  nature, 
perhaps,  has  never  condescended. 

The  chief  thing  which  the  imitative  arts  add  to 
nature  is  permanence,  the  lack  of  which  is  the 
saddest  defect  of  many  natural  beauties.  The 
forces  which  determine  natural  forms,  therefore, 
determine  also  the  forms  of  the  imitative  arts. 
But  the  non-imitative  arts  supply  organisms  dif- 
ferent in  kind  from  those  which  nature  affords. 
If  we  seek  the  principle  by  which  these  objects  are 
organized,  we  shall  generally  find  that  it  is  like- 
wise utility.  Architecture,  for  instance,  has  all 
its  forms  suggested  by  practical  demands.  Use 
requires  our  buildings  to  assume  certain  determi- 
nate forms ;  the  mechanical  properties  of  our  mate- 
rials, the  exigency  of  shelter,  light,  accessibility, 
economy,  and  convenience,  dictate  the  arrange- 
ments of  our  buildings. 

Houses  and  temples  have  an  evolution  like  that 
of  animals  and  plants.  Various  forms  arise  by 
mechanical  necessity,  like  the  cave,  or  the  shelter 
of  overhanging  boughs.     These  are  perpetuated  by 


1(32  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

a  selection  in  which  the  needs  and  pleasures  of 
man  are  the  environment  to  which  the  structure 
must  be  adapted.  Determinate  forms  thus  estab- 
lish themselves,  and  the  eye  becomes  accustomed 
to  them.  The  line  of  use,  by  habit  of  appercep- 
tion, becomes  the  line  of  beauty.  A  striking 
example  may  be  found  in  the  pediment  of  the 
Greek  temple  and  the  gable  of  the  northern  house. 
The  exigencies  of  climate  determine  these  forms 
differentl}^,  but  the  eye  in  each  case  accepts  what 
utility  imposes.  We  admire  height  in  one  and 
breadth  in  the  other,  and  we  soon  find  the  steep 
pediment  heavy  and  the  low  gable  awkward  and 
mean. 

It  would  be  an  error,  however,  to  conclude  that 
habit  alone  establishes  the  right  proportion  in 
these  various  types  of  building.  We  have  the 
same  intrinsic  elements  to  consider  as  in  natural 
forms.  That  is,  besides  the  unity  of  type  and  cor- 
respondence of  parts  which  custom  establishes, 
there  are  certain  appeals  to  more  fundamental 
susceptibilities  of  the  human  eye  and  imagina- 
tion. There  is,  for  instance,  the  value  of  abstract 
form,  determined  by  the  pleasantness  and  harmony 
of  implicated  retinal  or  muscular  tensions.  Dif- 
ferent structures  contain  or  suggest  more  or  less  of 
this  kind  of  beauty,  and  in  that  proportion  ma}''  be 
called  intrinsically  better  or  worse.  Thus  arti- 
ficial forms  may  be  arranged  in  a  hierarchy  like 
natural  ones,  by  reference  to  the  absolute  values 
of  their  contours  and  masses.  Herein  lies  the  su- 
periority of  a  Greek  to  a  Chinese  vase,  or  of  Gothic 


FORM  163 

to  Saracenic  construction.  Thus  although  every 
useful  form  is  capable  of  proportion  and  beauty, 
when  once  its  type  is  established,  we  cannot  say 
that  this  beauty  is  always  potentially  equal;  and 
an  iron  bridge,  for  instance,  although  it  certainly 
possesses  and  daily  acquires  aesthetic  interest,  will 
probably  never,  on  the  average,  equal  a  bridge  of 
stone. 


§  41.    Beauty  of  form  is  the  last  to  Form  and  ad- 
he  found  or  admired  in  artificial  as  in  Z!^l 
natural  objects.     Time  is  needed  to  es- 
tablish it,  and  training  and  nicety  of  perception  to 
enjoy  it.     Motion  or  colour  is  what  first  interests  a 
child  in  toys,  as  in  animals ;  and  the  barbarian  artist 
decorates  long  before  he  designs.     The  cave  and  wig- 
wam are  daubed  with  paint,  or  hung  with  trophies, 
before  any  pleasure  is  taken  in  their  shape;  and  the 
appeal  to  the  detached  senses,  and  to  associations 
of  wealth  and  luxury,  precedes  by  far  the  appeal 
to  the  perceptive  harmonies  of  form.     In  music  we 
observe  the  same  gradation;  first,  we  appreciate  its 
sensuous  and  sentimental  value;  only  with  educa- 
tion can  we  enjoy  its  form.     The  plastic  arts  begin, 
therefore,    with   adventitious   ornament  and  with 
symbolism.     The  aesthetic  pleasure  is  in  the  rich- 
ness of  the  material,  the  profusion  of  the  ornament, 
the  significance  of  the  shape  —  in  everything,  rather 
than  in  the  shape  itself. 

We  have  accordingly  in  works  of  art  two  inde- 
pendent sources  of  effect.  The  first  is  the  useful 
form,  which  generates  the  type,  and  ultimately  the 


1G4  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

beauty  of  form,  when  tlie  type  has  been  idealized 
by  emphasizing  its  intrinsically  pleasing  traits. 
The  second  is  the  beauty  of  ornament,  which  comes 
from  the  excitement  of  the  senses,  or  of  the  imagi- 
nation, by  colour,  or  by  profusion  or  delicacy  of 
detail.  Historically,  the  latter  is  first  developed, 
and  applied  to  a  form  as  yet  merely  useful.  But 
the  very  presence  of  ornament  attracts  contempla- 
tion; the  attention  lavished  on  the  object  helps  to 
fix  its  form  in  the  mind,  and  to  make  us  discrimi- 
nate the  less  from  the  more  graceful.  The  two 
kinds  of  beauty  are  then  felt,  and,  yielding  to  that 
tendency  to  unity  which  the  mind  always  betrays, 
we  begin  to  subordinate  and  organize  these  two 
excellences.  The  ornament  is  distributed  so  as 
to  emphasize  the  aesthetic  essence  of  the  form;  to 
idealize  it  even  more,  by  adding  adventitious  inter- 
ests harmoniously  to  the  in,trinsic  interest  of  the 
lines  of  structure. 

There  is  here  a  great  field,  of  course,  for  variety 
of  combination  and  compromise.  Some  artists  are 
fascinated  by  the  decoration,  and  think  of  the 
structure  merely  as  the  background  on  which  it 
can  be  most  advantageously  displayed.  Others, 
of  more  austere  taste,  allow  ornament  only  to 
emphasize  the  main  lines  of  the  design,  or  to  con- 
ceal such  inharmonious  elements  as  nature  or  utility 
may  prevent  them  from  eliminating.^  We  may  thus 

1  It  is  a  superstition  to  suppose  that  a  refined  taste  would 
necessarily  find  the  actual  and  useful  to  be  the  perfect ;  to  con- 
ceal structure  is  as  legitimate  as  to  emphasize  it,  and  for  the 
same  reason.    AVe  emphasize  in  the  direction  of  abstract  beauty, 


FORM  165 

oscillate  between  decorative  and  structural  motives, 
and  only  in  one  point,  for  each  style,  can  we  find 
the  ideal  equilibrium,  in  which  the  greatest  strength 
and  lucidity  is  combined  with  the  greatest  splen- 
dour. 

A  less  subtle,  but  still  very  effective,  combina- 
tion is  that  hit  upon  by  many  oriental  and  Gothic 
architects,  and  found,  also,  by  accident  perhaps, 
in  many  buildings  of  the  plateresque  style;  the 
ornament  and  structure  are  both  presented  with 
extreme  emphasis,  but  locally  divided;  a  vast 
rough  wall,  for  instance,  represents  the  one,  and 
a  profusion  of  mad  ornament  huddled  around  a 
central  door  or  window  represents  the  other. 

Gothic  architecture  offers  us  in  the  pinnacle  and 
flying  buttress  a  striking  example  of  the  adoption 


in  the  direction  of  absolute  pleasure ;  and  we  conceal  or  elimi- 
nate in  the  same  direction.  The  most  exquisite  Greek  taste, 
for  instance,  preferred  to  drape  the  lower  part  of  the  female 
figure,  as  in  the  Venus  of  Milo ;  also  in  men  to  shave  the  hair 
of  the  face  and  body,  in  order  to  maintain  the  purity  and 
strength  of  the  lines.  In  the  one  case  we  conceal  structure,  in 
the  other  we  reveal  it,  modifying  nature  into  greater  sympathy 
with  our  faculties  of  perception.  For,  after  all,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  beauty,  or  pleasure  to  be  given  to  the  eye,  is 
not  a  guiding  principle  in  the  world  of  nature  or  in  that  of  the 
practical  arts.  The  beauty  is  in  nature  a  result  of  the  func- 
tional adaptation  of  our  senses  and  imagination  to  the  mechan- 
ical products  of  our  environment.  This  adaptation  is  never 
complete,  and  there  is,  accordingly,  room  for  the  line  arts,  in 
which  beauty  is  a  result  of  the  intentional  adaptation  of  me- 
chanical forms  to  the  functions  which  our  senses  and  imagina- 
tion already  have  acquired.  This  watchful  subservience  to  our 
cesthetic  demands  is  the  essence  of  fine  art.  Nature  is  the  basis, 
but  man  is  the  goal. 


166  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  a  mechanical  feature,  and  its  transformation  into 
an  element  of  beauty.  Nothing  could  at  first  sight 
be  more  hopeless  than  the  external  half-arch  prop- 
ping the  side  of  a  pier,  or  the  chimney-like  weight 
of  stones  pressing  it  down  from  above;  but  a  coura- 
geous acceptance  of  these  necessities,  and  a  submis- 
sive study  of  their  form,  revealed  a  new  and  strange 
effect:  the  bewildering  and  stimulating  intricacy  of 
masses  suspended  in  mid-air;  the  profusion  of  line, 
variety  of  surface,  and  picturesqueness  of  light  and 
shade.  It  needed  but  a  little  applied  ornament 
judiciously  distributed;  a  moulding  in  the  arches; 
a  florid  canopy  aiid  statue  amid  the  buttresses;  a 
few  grinning  monsters  leaning  out  of  unexpected 
nooks;  a  leafy  budding  of  the  topmost  pinnacles; 
a  piercing  here  and  there  of  some  little  gallery, 
parapet,  or  turret  into  lacework  against  the  sky  — 
and  the  building  became  a  poem,  an  inexhaustible 
emotion.  Add  some  passing  cloud  casting  its  mov- 
ing shadow  over  the  pile,  add  the  circling  of  birds 
about  the  towers,  and  you  have  an  unforgettable 
type  of  beauty;  not  perhaps  the  noblest,  sanest,  or 
most  enduring,  but  one  for  the  existence  of  which 
the  imagination  is  richer,  and  the  world  more 
interesting. 

In  this  manner  we  accept  the  forms  imposed 
upon  us  by  utility,  and  train  ourselves  to  apper- 
ceive  their  potential  beauty.  Familiarity  breeds 
contempt  only  when  it  breeds  inattention.  Wlien 
the  mind  is  absorbed  and  dominated  by  its  percep- 
tions, it  incorporates  into  them  more  and  more  of 
its  own  functional  values,   and  makes  them  ulti- 


FORM  167 

mately  beautiful  and  expressive.  Thus  no  lan- 
guage can  be  ugly  to  those  Avho  speak  it  well,  no 
religion  unmeaning  to  those  who  have  learned  to 
pour  their  life  into  its  moulds. 

Of  course  these  forms  vary  in  intrinsic  excellence ; 
they  are  by  their  specific  character  more  or  less  fit 
and  facile  for  the  average  mind.  But  the  man  and 
the  age  are  rare  who  can  choose  their  own  path;  we 
have  generally  only  a  choice  between  going  ahead 
in  the  direction  already  chosen,  or  halting  and 
blocking  the  path  for  others.  The  only  kind  of 
reform  usually  possible  is  reform  from  within;  a 
more  intimate  study  and  more  intelligent  use  of 
the  traditional  forms.  Disaster  follows  rebellion 
against  tradition  or  against  utility,  which  are  the 
basis  and  root  of  our  taste  and  progress.  But, 
within  the  given  school,  and  as  exponents  of  its 
spirit,  we  can  adapt  and  perfect  our  works,  if 
haply  we  are  better  inspired  than  our  predeces- 
sors. For  the  better  we  know  a  given  thing,  and 
the  more  we  perceive  its  strong  and  weak  points, 
the  more  capable  we  are  of  idealizing  it. 

§  42.  The  main  effect  of  language  con-  Form  in  words. 
sists  in  its  meaning,  in  the  ideas  which  it 
expresses.  But  no  expression  is  possible  without 
a  presentation,  and  this  x^resentation  must  have  a 
form.  This  form  of  the  instrument  of  expression 
is  itself  an  element  of  effect,  althougli  in  practical 
life  we  may  overlook  it  in  our  haste  to  attend  to 
the  meaning  it  conveys.  It  is,  moreover,  a  condi- 
tion of  the  kind  of  expression  possible,  and  often 


168  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

determines  the  manner  in  wliicli  the  object  sug- 
gested shall  be  apperceived.  No  word  has  the 
exact  value  of  any  other  in  the  same  or  in  another 
language.^  But  the  intrinsic  effect  of  language 
does  not  stop  there.  The  single  word  is  but  a 
stage  in  the  series  of  formations  which  constitute 
language,  and  which  preserve  for  men  the  fruit  of 
their  experience,  distilled  and  concentrated  into  a 
symbol. 

This  formation  begins  with  the  elementary  sounds 
themselves,  which  have  to  be  discriminated  and 
combined  to  make  recognizable  symbols.  The 
evolution  of  these  symbols  goes  on  spontaneously, 
suggested  by  our  tendency  to  utter  all  manner  of 
sounds,  and  preserved  by  the  ease  with  which  the 
ear  discriminates  these  sounds  when  made.  Speech 
would  be  an  absolute  and  unrelated  art,  like  music, 
were  it  not  controlled  by  utility.  The  sounds  have 
indeed  no  resemblance  to  the  objects  they  symbol- 
ize ;  but  before  the  system  of  sounds  can  represent 
the  system  of  objects,  there  has  to  be  a  correspond- 
ence in  the  groupings  of  bofch.  The  structure  of 
language,  unlike  that  of  music,   thus  becomes  a 

1  Not  only  are  words  untranslatable  when  the  exact  object 
has  no  name  in  another  language,  as  "home"  or  "mon  ami," 
but  even  when  the  object  is  the  same,  the  attitude  toward  it, 
incorporated  in  one  word,  cannot  be  rendered  by  another. 
Thus,  to  my  sense,  "  bread  "  is  as  inadequate  a  translation  of 
the  human  intensity  of  the  Spanish  "  pan  "  as  "  Dios  "  is  of  the 
awful  mystery  of  the  English  "God."  This  latter  word  does 
not  designate  an  object  at  all,  but  a  sentiment,  a  psychosis,  not 
to  say  a  whole  chapter  of  religious  history.  English  is  remark- 
able for  the  intensity  and  variety  of  the  colour  of  its  words. 
No  language,  I  believe,  has  so  many  words  specifically  poetic. 


FORM  169 

mirror  of  the  structure  of  the  world  as  presented 
to  the  intelligence. 

Grammar,  philosophically  studied,  is  akin  to  the 
deepest  metaphysics,  because  in  revealing  the  con- 
stitution of  speech,  it  reveals  the  constitution  of 
thought,  and  the  hierarchy  of  those  categories  by 
which  we  conceive  the  world.  It  is  by  virtue  of 
this  parallel  development  that  language  has  its 
function  of  expressing  experience  with  exactness, 
and  the  poet  —  to  whom  language  is  an  instrument 
of  art  —  has  to  employ  it  also  with  a  constant  ref- 
erence to  meaning  and  veracity;  that  is,  he  must 
be  a  master  of  experience  before  he  can  become  a 
true  master  of  words.  Nevertheless,  language  is 
primarily  a  sort  of  music,  and  the  beautiful  effects 
which  it  produces  are  due  to  its  own  structure, 
giving,  as  it  crystallizes  in  a  new  fashion,  an 
unforeseen  form  to  experience. 

Poets  may  be  divided  into  two  classes :  the  musi- 
cians and  the  psychologists.  The  first  are  masters 
of  significant  language  as  harmony;  they  know 
what  notes  to  sound  together  and  in  succession; 
they  can  produce,  by  the  marshalling  of  sounds 
and  images,  by  the  fugue  of  passion  and  the  snap 
of  wit,  a  thousand  brilliant  effects  out  of  old  mate- 
rials. The  Ciceronian  orator,  the  epigrammatic, 
lyric,  and  elegiac  poets,  give  examples  of  this  art. 
The  psychologists,  on  the  other  hand,  gain  their 
effect  not  by  the  intrinsic  mastery  of  language, 
but  by  the  closer  adaptation  of  it  to  things.  The 
dramatic  poets  naturally  furnish  an  illustration. 

But  however  transparent  we  may  wish  to  make 


170  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

OLir  language,  however  little  we  may  call  for  its 
intrinsic  effects,  and  direct  our  attention  exclu- 
sively to  its  expressiveness,  we  cannot  avoid  the 
limitations  of  our  particular  medium.  The  char- 
acter of  the  tongue  a  man  speaks,  and  the  degree 
of  his  skill  in  speaking  it,  must  always  count 
enormously  in  the  sesthetic  value  of  his  composi- 
tions ;  no  skill  in  observation,  no  depth  of  thought 
or  feeling,  but  is  spoiled  by  a  bad  style  and  en- 
hanced by  a  good  one.  The  diversities  of  tongues 
and  their  irreducible  aesthetic  values,  begins  with 
the  very  sound  of  the  letters,  with  the  mode  of 
utterance,  and  the  characteristic  inflections  of 
the  voice;  notice,  for  instance,  the  effect  of  the 
French  of  these  lines  of  Alfred  de  Musset, 

Jamais  deux  yeux  plus  doux  n'ont  du  ciel  le  plus  pur 
Sonde  la  profoiideur  et  refleclii  I'azur. 

and  compare  with  its  flute-like  and  treble  quality 
the  breadth,  depth,  and  volume  of  the  German  in 
this  inimitable  stanza  of  Goethe's : 

Uebcr  alien  Gipfeln 

1st  Ruh, 

In  alien  Wipfeln 

Spiirest  du 

Kaum  einen  Hauch ; 

Die  Vogelein  schweigen  im  Walde. 

Warte  nur,  balde 

Ruliest  du  audi. 

Even  if  the  same  tune  could  be  played  on  both 
these  vocal  instruments,  the  difference  in  their 
timbre  v^^ould  make  the  value  of  the  melody  entirely 
distinct  in  each  case. 


FORM  171 

§  43.  The  known  impossibility  of  Syntactical 
adequate  translation  appears  here  at 
the  basis  of  language.  The  other  diversities  are 
superadded  upon  this  diversity  of  sound.  The 
syntax  is  the  next  source  of  effect.  What  could 
be  better  than  Homer,  or  what  worse  than  almost 
any  translation  of  him?  And  this  holds  even  of 
languages  so  closely  allied  as  the  Indo-European, 
which,  after  all,  have  certain  correspondences  of 
syntax  and  inflection.  If  there  could  be  a  lan- 
guage with  other  parts  of  speech  than  ours, —  a 
language  without  nouns,  for  instance,  —  how  would 
that  grasp  of  experience,  that  picture  of  the  world, 
which  all  our  literature  contains,  be  reproduced  in 
it?  Whatever  beauties  that  language  might  be 
susceptible  of,  none  of  the  effects  produced  on  us, 
I  will  not  say  by  poets,  but  even  by  nature  itself, 
could  be  expressed  in  it. 

Nor  is  such  a  language  inconceivable.  Instead 
of  summarizing  all  our  experiences  of  a  thing  by 
one  word,  its  name,  we  should  have  to  recall  by 
approjjriate  adjectives  the  various  sensations  we 
had  received  from  it;  the  objects  we  think  of  would 
be  disintegrated,  or,  rather,  would  never  have  been 
unified.  For  "sun,"  they  would  say  "liigh,  yellow, 
dazzling,  round,  slowly  moving,"  and  the  enumer- 
ation of  these  qualities  (as  we  call  them),  without 
any  suggestion  of  a  unity  at  their  source,  might 
give  a  more  vivid  and  profound,  if  more  cumbrous, 
representation  of  the  facts.  But  how  could  the 
machinery  of  such  an  imagination  be  capable  of 
repeating  the  effects  of  ours,  when  the  objects  to 


172  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

US  most  obvious  and  real  would  be  to  those  minds 
utterly  indescribable? 

The  same  diversity  appears  in  the  languages 
we  ordinarily  know,  only  in  a  lesser  degree.  The 
l^resence  or  absence  of  case-endings  in  nouns  and 
adjectives,  their  difference  of  gender,  the  richness 
of  inflections  in  the  verbs,  the  frequency  of  par- 
ticles and  conjunctions,  — all  these  characteristics 
make  one  language  differ  from  another  entirely  in 
genius  and  capacity  of  expression.  Greek  is  prob- 
ably the  best  of  all  languages  in  melody,  rich- 
ness, elasticity,  and  simplicity;  so  much  so,  that 
in  spite  of  its  complex  inflections,  when  once  a 
vocabulary  is  acquired,  it  is  more  easy  and  nat- 
ural for  a  modern  than  his  ancestral  Latin  itself. 
Latin  is  the  stiffer  tongue;  it  is  by  nature  at 
once  laconic  and  grandiloquent,  and  the  excep- 
tional condensation  and  transposition  of  which  it 
is  capable  make  its  effects  entirely  foreign  to  a 
modern,  scarcely  inflected,  tongue.  Take,  for  in- 
stance, these  lines  of  Horace : 

me  tabula  sacer 
votiva  paries  indicat  uvida 
suspendisse  potenti 
vestimenta  maris  deo, 

or  these  of  Lucretius : 

Jamque  caput  quassans  grandis  suspirat  arator 
Crebrius  iucassum  magnum  cecidisse  laborem. 

What  conglomerate  plebeian  speech  of  our  time 
could  utter  the  stately  grandeur  of  these  Lucretian 
words,  every  one  of  which  is  noble,  and  wears  the 
tosa? 


FORM  173 

As  a  substitute  for  the  inimitable  interpenetra- 
tion  of  tlie  words  in  the  Horatian  strophe,  we  might 
have  the  external  links  of  rhyme ;  and  it  seems,  in 
fact,  to  be  a  justification  of  rhyme,  that  besides 
contributing  something  to  melody  and  to  the  dis- 
tribution of  parts,  it  gives  an  artificial  relationship 
to  the  phrases  between  which  it  obtains,  which,  but 
for  it,  would  run  away  from  one  another  in  a  rapid 
and  irrevocable  flux.  In  such  a  form  as  the  sonnet, 
for  instance,  we  have,  by  dint  of  assonance,  a  real 
unity  forced  upon  the  thought;  for  a  sonnet  in 
which  the  thought  is  not  distributed  appropriately 
to  the  structure  of  the  verse,  has  no  excuse  for 
being  a  sonnet.  By  virtue  of  this  inter-relation 
of  parts,  the  sonnet,  the  non  plus  ultra  of  rhyme, 
is  the  most  classic  of  modern  poetical  forms :  much 
more  classic  in  spirit  than  blank  verse,  which  lacks 
almost  entirely  the  power  of  synthesizing  the 
phrase,  and  making  the  unexpected  seem  the  in- 
evitable. 

This  beauty  given  to  the  ancients  by  the  syntax 
of  their  language,  the  moderns  can  only  attain 
by  the  combination  of  their  rhymes.  It  is  a 
bad  substitute  perhaps,  but  better  than  the  total 
absence  of  form,  favoured  by  the  atomic  character 
of  our  words,  and  the  flat  juxtaposition  of  our 
clauses.  The  art  which  was  capable  of  making  a 
gem  of  every  prose  sentence, —  the  art  which,  car- 
ried, perhaps,  to  a  pitch  at  which  it  became  too 
conscious,  made  the  phrases  of  Tacitus  a  series  of 
cameos,  — that  art  is  inapplicable  to  our  looser 
medium;  we  cannot  give  clay  the  finish  and  nicety 


174  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  marble.  Our  poetry  and  speech  in  general, 
therefore,  start  out  upon  a  lower  level;  the  same 
effort  will  not,  with  this  instrument,  attain  the 
same  beauty.  If  equal  beauty  is  ever  attained,  it 
comes  from  the  wealth  of  suggestion,  or  the  refine- 
ment of  sentiment.  The  art  of  words  remains 
hopelessly  inferior.  And  what  best  proves  this, 
is  that  when,  as  in  our  time,  a  reawakening  of  the 
love  of  beauty  has  prompted  a  refinement  of  our 
poetical  language,  we  pass  so  soon  into  extrava- 
gance, obscurity,  and  affectation.  Our  modern 
languages  are  not  susceptible  of  great  formal 
beauty. 

Literary  form.       §  44.    The  forms    of   compositiou   in 

The  plot.  ,  -   .    ,  ..       -,     . 

verse  and  prose  which  are  practised  m 
each  language  are  further  organizations  of  words, 
and  have  formal  values.  The  most  exacting  of 
these  forms  and  that  which  has  been  carried  to  the 
greatest  perfection  is  the  drama;  but  it  belongs  to 
rhetoric  and  poetics  to  investigate  the  nature  of 
these  effects,  and  we  have  here  sufficiently  indi- 
cated the  principle  which  underlies  them.  The  plot, 
which  Aristotle  makes,  and  very  justly,  the  most 
important  element  in  the  effect  of  a  drama,  is  the 
formal  element  of  the  drama  as  such:  the  ethos 
and  sentiments  are  the  expression,  and  the  versifi- 
cation, music,  and  stage  settings  are  the  materials. 
It  is  in  harmony  with  the  romantic  tendency  of 
modern  times  that  modern  dramatists  —  Shake- 
speare as  well  as  Moliere,  Calderon,  and  the  rest  — 
excel  in  ethos  rather  than  in  plot;   for  it  is  the 


FORM  175 

evident  characteristic  of  modern  genius  to  study 
and  enjoy  expression, — the  suggestion  of  the  not- 
given, —  rather  than  form,  the  harmony  of  the 
given. 

Ethos  is  interesting  mainly  for  the  personal 
observations  which  it  summarizes  and  reveals,  or 
for  the  appeal  to  one's  own  actual  or  imaginative 
experience;  it  is  portrait-painting,  and  enshrines 
something  we  love  independently  of  the  charm 
which  at  this  moment  and  in  this  place  it  exercises 
over  us.  It  appeals  to  our  affections ;  it  does  not 
form  them.  But  the  plot  is  the  synthesis  of 
actions,  and  is  a  reproduction  of  those  experiences 
from  which  our  notion  of  men  and  things  is  origi- 
nally derived;  for  character  can  never  be  observed 
in  the  world  except  as  manifested  in  action. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  more  fundamentally  accurate 
to  say  that  a  character  is  a  symbol  and  mental  ab- 
breviation for  a  peculiar  set  of  acts,  than  to  say 
that  acts  are  a  manifestation  of  character.  For 
the  acts  are  the  data,  and  the  character  the  inferred 
principle,  and  a  principle,  in  spite  of  its  name,  is 
never  more  than  a  description  a  posteriori,  and  a 
summary  of  what  is  subsumed  under  it.  The  plot, 
moreover,  is  what  gives  individuality  to  the  phay, 
and  exercises  invention;  it  is,  as  Aristotle  again 
says,  the  most  difficult  portion  of  dramatic  art, 
and  that  for  which  practice  and  training  are  most 
indispensable.  And  this  plot,  giving  by  its  nature 
a  certain  picture  of  human  experience,  involves 
and  suggests  the  ethos  of  its  actors. 

What  the  great  characterizers,  like  Shakespeare, 


176  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

do,  is  simply  to  elaborate  and  develope  (perhaps  far 
beyond  the  necessities  of  the  plot)  the  suggestion 
of  human  individuality  which  that  plot  contains. 
It  is  as  if,  having  drawn  from  daily  observation 
some  knowledge  of  the  tempers  of  our  friends,  we 
represented  them  saying  and  doing  all  manner  of 
ultra-characteristic  things,  and  in  an  occasional 
soliloquy  laying  bare,  even  more  clearly  than  by 
any  possible  action,  that  character  which  their 
observed  behaviour  had  led  us  to  im^Dute  to  them. 
This  is  an  ingenious  and  fascinating  invention, 
and  delights  us  with  the  clear  discovery  of  a  hid- 
den personality ;  but  the  serious  and  equable  devel- 
opment of  a  plot  has  a  more  stable  worth  in  its 
greater  similarity  to  life,  which  allows  us  to  see 
other  men's  minds  through  the  medium  of  events, 
and  not  events  through  the  medium  of  other  men's 
minds. 

Character  as  §  45.     'We  haVC  jUSt  COme  UpOU  OUC  of 

an  cesthetic  _  .    .  ,  ,     -,    ■  -,• , 

form.  the  unities  most  coveted  m  our  litera- 

ture, and  most  valued  by  us  when 
attained,  — the  portrait,  the  individuality,  the  char- 
acter. The  construction  of  a  plot  we  call  inven- 
tion, but  that  of  a  character  we  dignify  with  the 
name  of  creation.  It  may  therefore  not  be  amiss, 
in  finishing  our  discussion  of  form,  to  devote  a 
few  pages  to  the  psychology  of  character-drawing. 
How  does  the  unity  we  call  a  character  arise,  how 
is  it  described,  and  what  is  the  basis  of  its  effect? 

We  may  set  it  down  at  once  as  evident  that  we 
have  here  a  case  of  the  type:  the  similarities  of 


FORM  177 

various  persons  are  amalgamated,  their  differences 
cancelled,  and  in  the  resulting  percept  those  traits 
emphasized  which  have  particularly  pleased  or  in- 
terested us.  This,  in  the  abstract,  may  serve  for 
a  description  of  the  origin  of  an  idea  of  character 
quite  as  well  as  of  an  idea  of  physical  form.  But 
the  different  nature  of  the  material  —  the  fact  that  a 
character  is  not  a  presentation  to  sense,  but  a  ration- 
alistic synthesis  of  successive  acts  and  feelings,  not 
combinable  into  any  image  —  makes  such  a  descrip- 
tion much  more  unsatisfying  in  this  case  than  in 
that  of  material  forms.  We  cannot  understand 
exactly  how  these  summations  and  can  ceilings  take 
place  when  we  are  not  dealing  with  a  visible  object. 
And  we  may  even  feel  that  there  is  a  wholeness 
and  inwardness  about  the  development  of  certain 
ideal  characters,  that  makes  such  a  treatment  of 
them  fundamentally  false  and  artificial.  The  sub- 
jective element,  the  spontaneous  expression  of  our 
own  passion  and  will,  here  counts  for  so  much, 
that  the  creation  of  an  ideal  character  becomes  a 
new  and  peculiar  problem. 

There  is,  however,  a  way  of  conceiving  and 
delineating  character  which  still  bears  a  close 
resemblance  to  the  process  by  which  the  imagina- 
tion produces  the  type  of  any  physical  species.  We 
may  gather,  for  instance,  about  the  nucleus  of  a 
word,  designating  some  human  condition  or  occu- 
pation, a  number  of  detached  observations.  We 
may  keep  a  note-book  in  our  memory,  or  even  in 
our  pocket,  with  studious  observations  of  the  lan- 
guage, manners,  dress,  gesture,  and  history  of  the 


178  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

people  we  meet,  classifying  our  statistics  under 
such  heads  as  innkeepers,  soldiers,  housemaids, 
governesses,  adventuresses,  Germans,  Frenchmen, 
Italians,  Americans,  actors,  priests,  and  professors. 
And  then,  when  occasion  offers,  to  describe,  or  to 
put  into  a  book  or  a  play,  any  one  of  these  types, 
all  we  have  to  do  is  to  look  over  our  notes,  to  select 
according  to  the  needs  of  the  moment,  and  if  we 
are  skilful  in  reproduction,  to  obtain  by  that 
means  a  life-like  image  of  the  sort  of  person  vv^e 
wish  to  represent. 

This  process,  which  novelists  and  playwriglits 
may  go  through  deliberately,  we  all  carry  on  in- 
voluntarily. At  every  moment  experience  is  leav- 
ing in  our  minds  some  trait,  some  expression,  some 
image,  which  will  remain  there  attached  to  the 
name  of  a  person,  a  class,  or  a  nationality.  Our 
likes  and  dislikes,  our  summary  judgments  on  whole 
categories  of  men,  are  nothing  but  the  distinct  sur- 
vival of  some  such  impression.  These  traits  have 
vivacity.  If  the  picture  they  draw  is  one-sided 
and  inadequate,  the  sensation  they  recall  may  be 
vivid,  and  suggestive  of  many  other  aspects  of  the 
thing.  Thus  the  epithets  in  Homer,  although  they 
are  often  far  from  describing  the  essence  of  the 
object  —  yXavKa)iri<s  ^kQi'jvy],  evKvrjiiiLS€<s  'A;^'atot — -seem 
to  recall  a  sensation,  and  to  give  vitality  to  the 
narrative.  By  bringing  you,  through  one  sense, 
into  the  presence  of  the  object,  they  give  you  that 
same  hint  of  further  discovery,  that  same  expec- 
tation of  experience,  which  we  have  at  the  sight 
of  whatever  we  call  real. 


FORM  179 

The  grapliic  x^ower  of  this  method  of  observation 
and  aggregation  of  characteristic  traits  is  thus  seen 
to  be  great.  But  it  is  not  by  this  method  that  the 
most  famous  or  most  living  characters  have  been 
conceived.  This  method  gives  the  average,  or  at 
most  the  salient,  points  of  the  type,  but  the  great 
characters  of  poetry  —  a  Hamlet,  a  Don  Quixote, 
an  Achilles  —  are  no  averages,  they  are  not  even  a 
collection  of  salient  traits  common  to  certain  classes 
of  men.  They  seem  to  be  persons;  that  is,  their 
actions  and  words  seem  to  spring  from  the  inward 
nature  of  an  individual  soul.  Goethe  is  reported 
to  have  said  that  he  conceived  the  character  of  his 
Gretchen  entirely  without  observation  of  originals. 
And,  indeed,  he  would  probably  not  have  found 
any.  His  creation  rather  is  the  original  to  which 
we  may  occasionally  think  we  see  some  likeness  in 
real  maidens.  It  is  the  fiction  here  that  is  the 
standard  of  naturalness.  And  on  this,  as  on  so 
many  occasions,  we  may  repeat  the  saying  that 
poetry  is  truer  than  history.  Perhaps  no  actual 
maid  ever  spoke  and  acted  so  naturally  as  this 
imaginary  one. 

If  we  think  there  is  any  paradox  in  these  asser- 
tions, we  should  reflect  that  the  standard  of  natu- 
ralness, individuality,  and  truth  is  in  us.  A  real 
person  seems  to  us  to  have  character  and  consist- 
ency when  his  behaviour  is  such  as  to  impress  a 
definite  and  simple  image  upon  our  mind.  In 
themselves,  if  we  could  count  all  their  undiscovered 
springs  of  action,  all  men  have  character  and  con- 
sistency alike :  all  are  equally  fit  to  be  types.    But 


180  THE   SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

their  cliaracters  are  not  equally  intelligible  to  us, 
their  behaviour  is  not  equally  deducible,  and  their 
motives  not  equally  appreciable.  Those  who  ap- 
peal most  to  us,  either  in  themselves  or  by  the 
emphasis  they  borrow  from  their  similarity  to  other 
individuals,  are  those  we  remember  and  regard  as 
the  centres  around  which  variations  oscillate. 
These  men  are  natural:  all  others  are  more  or 
less  eccentric. 

Ideal  §  46.    The    standard    of   naturalness 

being  thus  subjective,  and  determined 
by  the  laws  of  our  imagination,  we  can  understand 
why  a  spontaneous  creation  of  the  mind  can  be 
more  striking  and  living  than  any  reality,  or  any 
abstraction  from  realities.  The  artist  can  invent 
a  form  which,  by  its  adaptation  to  the  imagination, 
lodges  there,  and  becomes  a  point  of  reference  for 
all  observations,  and  a  standard  of  naturalness  and 
beauty.  A  type  may  be  introduced  to  the  mind 
suddenly,  by  the  chance  presentation  of  a  form 
that  by  its  intrinsic  impressiveness  and  imagina- 
tive coherence,  acquires  that  pre-eminence  which 
custom,  or  the  mutual  reinforcement  of  converging 
experiences,  ordinarily  gives  to  empirical  percepts. 
This  method  of  originating  types  is  what  we 
ordinarily  describe  as  artistic  creation.  The  name 
indicates  the  suddenness,  originality,  and  individu- 
ality of  the  conception  thus  attained.  What  we 
call  idealization  is  often  a  case  of  it.  In  idealiza- 
tion proper,  however,  what  happens  is  the  elimina- 
tion  of    individual    eccentricities;    the   result   is 


FORM  181 

abstract,  and  consequently  meagre.  This  meagre- 
ness  is  often  felt  to  be  a  greater  disadvantage  than 
the  accidental  and  picturesque  imperfection  of  real 
individuals,  and  the  artist  therefore  turns  to  the 
brute  fact,  and  studies  and  reproduces  that  with  in- 
discriminate attention,  rather  than  lose  strength  and 
individuality  in  the  presentation  of  an  insipid  type. 
He  seems  forced  to  a  choice  between  an  abstract 
beauty  and  an  unlovely  example. 

But  the  great  and  masterful  presentations  of  the 
ideal  are  somehow  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
They  present  ideal  beauty  with  just  that  definite- 
ness  with  which  nature  herself  sometimes  presents 
it.  "When  we  come  in  a  crowd  upon  an  incom- 
parably beautiful  face,  we  know  it  immediately  as 
an  embodiment  of  the  ideal;  while  it  contains  the 
typsj  —  for  if  it  did  not  we  should  find  it  mon- 
strous and  grotesque,  —  it  clothes  that  type  in  a 
peculiar  splendour  of  form,  colour,  and  expression. 
It  has  an  individuality.  And  just  so  the  imaginary 
figures  of  poetry  and  plastic  art  may  have  an  in- 
dividuality given  them  by  the  happy  affinities  of 
their  elements  in  the  imagination.  They  are  not 
idealizations,  they  are  spontaneous  variations, 
which  can  arise  in  the  mind  quite  as  easily  as  in 
the  world.    They  spring  up  in 

The  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain  ;  ' 

.  .  .  With  all  the  gardner  fancy  e'er  could  feign 
Who,  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same. 

Imagination,  in  a  word,  generates  as  well  as 
abstracts;  it  observes,  combines,  and  cancels;  but 


182  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

it  also  dreams.  Spontaneous  syntheses  arise  in  it 
wliicli  are  not  mathematical  averages  of  the  images 
it  receives  from  sense;  they  are  effects  of  diffused 
excitements  left  in  the  brain  by  sensations.  These 
excitements  vary  constantly  in  their  various  re- 
newals, and  occasionally  take  such  a  form  that 
the  soul  is  surprised  by  the  inward  vision  of  an 
unexampled  beauty.  If  this  inward  vision  is 
clear  and  steady,  we  have  an  aesthetic  inspiration, 
a  vocation  to  create ;  and  if  we  can  also  command 
the  technique  of  an  appropriate  art,  we  shall 
hasten  to  embody  that  inspiration,  and  realize  an 
ideal.  This  ideal  will  be  gradually  recognized  as 
supremely  beautiful  for  the  same  reason  that  the 
object,  had  it  been  presented  in  the  real  world, 
would  have  been  recognized  as  supremely  beauti- 
ful; because  while  embodying  a  known  type  of 
form, — being,  that  is,  a  proper  man,  animal,  or 
vegetable,  —  it  possessed  in  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree those  direct  charms  which  most  subjugate 
our  attention. 

Imaginary  forms  then  differ  in  dignity  and 
beauty  not  according  to  their  closeness  to  fact  or 
type  in  nature,  but  according  to  the  ease  with 
which  the  normal  imagination  reproduces  the  syn- 
thesis they  contain.  To  add  wings  to  a  man  has 
always  been  a  natural  fancy;  because  man  can 
easily  imagine  himself  to  fly,  and  the  idea  is 
delightful  to  him.  The  winged  man  is  therefore 
a  form  generally  recognized  as  beautiful ;  although 
it  can  happen,  as  it  did  to  ISIichael  Angelo,  that 
our  appreciation  of  the  actual  form  of  the  human 


FORM  183 

body  should  be  too  keen  and  overmastering  to 
allow  us  to  relish  even  so  charming  and  imagi- 
native an  extravagance.  The  centaur  is  another 
beautiful  monster.  The  imagination  can  easily 
follow  the  synthesis  of  the  dream  in  which  horse 
and  man  melted  into  one,  and  first  gave  the  glorious 
suggestion  of  their  united  vitality. 

The  same  condition  determines  the  worth  of 
imaginary  personalities.  From  the  gods  to  the 
characters  of  comedy,  all  are,  in  proportion  to 
their  beauty,  natural  and  exhilarating  expressions 
of  possible  human  activity.  We  sometimes  re- 
mould visible  forms  into  imaginary  creatures ;  but 
our  originality  in  this  respect  is  meagre  compared 
with  the  profusion  of  images  of  action  which  arise 
in  us,  both  asleep  and  awake ;  we  constantly  dream 
of  new  situations,  extravagant  adventures,  and  ex- 
aggerated passions.  Even  our  soberer  thoughts 
are  very  much  given  to  following  the  possible 
fortunes  of  some  enterprise,  and  foretasting  the 
satisfactions  of  love  and  ambition.  The  mind 
is  therefore  particularly  sensitive  to  pictures  of 
action  and  character;  we  are  easily  induced  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  any  hero,  and  share  his 
sentiments. 

Our  will,  as  Descartes  said  in  a  different  con- 
text, is  infinite,  while  our  intelligence  is  finite; 
we  follow  experience  pretty  closely  in  our  ideas 
of  things,  and  even  the  furniture  of  fairyland 
bears  a  sad  resemblance  to  that  of  earth;  but  there 
is  no  limit  to  the  elasticity  of  our  passion;  and  we 
love  to  fancy  ourselves  kings  and  beggars,  saints 


184  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

and  villains,  young  and  old,  happy  and  unhappy. 
There  seems  to  be  a  boundless  capacity  of  develop- 
ment in  each  of  us,  which  the  circumstances  of  life 
determine  to  a  narrow  channel;  and  we  like  to  re- 
venge ourselves  in  our  reveries  for  this  imputed 
limitation,  by  classifying  ourselves  with  all  that 
we  are  not,  but  might  so  easily  have  been.  We 
are  full  of  sympathy  for  every  manifestation  of 
life,  however  unusual;  and  even  the  conception  of 
infinite  knowledge  and  happiness  —  than  which 
nothing  could  be  more  removed  from  our  condi- 
tion or  more  unrealizable  to  our  fancy  —  remains 
eternally  interesting  to  us. 

The  poet,  therefore,  who  wishes  to  delineate  a 
character  need  not  keep  a  note-book.  There  is  a 
quicker  road  to  the  heart  —  if  he  has  the  gift  to 
find  it.  Probably  his  readers  will  not  themselves 
have  kept  note-books,  and  his  elaborate  observa- 
tions will  only  be  effective  when  he  describes 
something  which  they  also  happen  to  have  noticed. 
The  typical  characters  describable  by  the  empirical 
method  are  therefore  few:  the  miser,  the  lover, 
the  old  nurse,  the  ingenue,  and  the  other  types 
of  traditional  comedy.  Any  greater  specification 
would  appeal  only  to  a  small  audience  for  a  short 
time,  because  the  characteristics  depicted  would 
no  longer  exist  to  be  recognized.  But  whatever 
experience  a  poet's  hearers  may  have  had,  they 
are  men.  They  will  have  certain  imaginative 
capacities  to  conceive  and  admire  those  forms  of 
character  and  action  which,  although  never  actu- 
ally found,  are  felt  by  each  man  to  express  what 


FORM  185 

he  himself  might  and  would  have  been,  had  cir- 
cumstances been  more  favourable. 

The  poet  has  only  to  study  himself,  and  the  art 
of  expressing  his  own  ideals,  to  find  that  he  has 
expressed  those  of  other  people.  He  has  but  to 
enact  in  himself  the  part  of  each  of  his  person- 
ages, and  if  he  possesses  that  pliability  and  that 
definiteness  of  imagination  which  together  make 
genius,  he  may  express  for  his  fellows  those  in- 
ward tendencies  which  in  them  have  remained 
painfully  dumb.  He  will  be  hailed  as  master  of 
the  human  soul.  He  may  know  nothing  of  men, 
he  may  have  almost  no  experience;  but  his  crea- 
tions will  pass  for  models  of  naturalness,  and  for 
types  of  humanity.  Their  names  will  be  in  every 
one's  mouth,  and  the  lives  of  many  generations 
will  be  enriched  by  the  vision,  one  might  almost 
say  by  the  friendship,  of  these  imaginary  beings. 
They  have  individuality  without  having  reality, 
because  individuality  is  a  thing  acquired  in  the 
mind  by  the  congeries  of  its  impressions.  They 
have  power,  also,  because  that  depends  on  the 
appropriateness  of  a  stimulus  to  touch  the  springs 
of  reaction  in  the  soul.  And  they  of  course  have 
beauty,  because  in  them  is  embodied  the  greatest 
of  our  imaginative  delights,  —  that  of  giving  body 
to  our  latent  capacities,  and  of  wandering,  without 
the  strain  and  contradiction  of  actual  existence, 
into  all  forms  of  possible  being. 

§  47.    The  greatest  of  these  creations   ^^«  reiighus 
have  not  been  the  work  of  any  one  man.   """^"'^ '°"' 


186  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

They  have  been  the  slow  product  of  the  pious  and 
poetic  imagination.  Starting  from  some  personifi- 
cation of  nature  or  some  memory  of  a  great  man, 
the  popular  and  priestly  tradition  has  refined  and 
developed  the  ideal;  it  has  made  it  an  expression 
of  men's  aspiration  and  a  counterpart  of  their  need. 
The  devotion  of  each  tribe,  shrine,  and  psalmist  has 
added  some  attribute  to  the  god  or  some  parable  to 
his  legend;  and  thus,  around  the  kernel  of  some 
original  divine  function,  the  imagination  of  a 
people  has  gathered  every  possible  expression  of 
it,  creating  a  complete  and  beautiful  personality, 
with  its  history,  its  character,  and  its  gifts.  No 
poet  has  ever  equalled  the  perfection  or  signifi- 
cance of  these  religious  creations.  The  greatest 
characters  of  fiction  are  uninteresting  and  unreal 
compared  with  the  conceptions  of  the  gods;  so 
much  so  that  men  have  believed  that  their  gods 
have  objective  reality. 

The  forms  men  see  in  dreams  might  have  been 
a  reason  for  believing  in  vague  and  disquieting 
ghosts;  but  the  belief  in  individual  and  well- 
defined  divinities,  with  which  the  visions  of  the 
dreams  might  be  identified,  is  obviously  due  to  the 
intrinsic  coherence  and  impressiveness  of  the  con- 
ception of  those  deities.  The  visions  would  never 
have  suggested  the  legend  and  attributes  of  the 
god;  but  when  the  figure  of  the  god  was  once 
imaginatively  conceived,  and  his  name  and  aspect 
fixed  in  the  imagination,  it  would  be  easy  to  recog- 
nize him  in  any  hallucination,  or  to  interpret  any 
event  as  due  to  his  power.     These  manifestations, 


FORM  187 

which  constitute  the  evidence  of  his  actual  exist- 
ence, can  be  regarded  as  manifestations  of  him, 
rather  than  of  a  vague,  unknown  power,  only  when 
the  imagination  already  possesses  a  vivid  picture 
of  him,  and  of  his  appropriate  functions.  This 
picture  is  the  work  of  a  spontaneous  fancy. 

No  doubt,  when  the  belief  is  once  specified,  and 
the  special  and  intelligible  god  is  distinguished  in 
the  night  and  horror  of  the  all-pervading  natural 
power,  the  belief  in  his  reality  helps  to  concentrate 
our  attention  on  his  nature,  and  thus  to  develope 
and  enrich  our  idea.  The  belief  in  the  reality  of 
an  ideal  personality  brings  about  its  further  ideal- 
ization. Had  it  ever  occurred  to  any  Greek  seer 
to  attribute  events  to  the  influence  of  Achilles,  or 
to  offer  sacrifices  to  him  in  the  heat  of  the  enthusi- 
asm kindled  by  the  thought  of  his  beauty  and 
virtue,  the  legend  of  Achilles,  now  become  a  god, 
would  have  grown  and  deepened;  it  would  have 
been  moralized  like  the  legend  of  Hercules,  or 
naturalized  like  that  of  Persephone,  and  what  is 
now  but  a  poetic  character  of  extraordinary  force 
and  sublimity  would  have  become  the  adored 
patron  of  generation  after  generation,  and  a  mani- 
festation of  the  divine  man. 

Achilles  would  then  have  been  as  significant  and 
unforgettable  a  figure  as  Apollo  or  his  sister,  as 
Zeus,  Athena,  and  the  other  greater  gods.  If 
ever,  while  that  phase  of  religion  lasted,  his 
character  had  been  obscured  and  his  features 
dimmed,  he  would  have  been  recreated  by  every 
new  votary :  poets  would  never  have  tired  of  sing- 


188  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY   • 

ing  liis  praises,  or  sculptors  of  rendering  his  form. 
Wiien,  after  the  hero  had  been  the  centre  and  sub- 
ject of  so  much  imaginative  labour,  the  belief  in 
his  reality  lapsed,  to  be  transferred  to  some  other 
conception  of  cosmic  power,  he  would  have  re- 
mained an  ideal  of  poetry  and  art,  and  a  formative 
influence  of  all  cultivated  minds.  This  he  is  still, 
like  all  the  great  creations  of  avowed  fiction,  but 
he  would  have  been  immensely  more  so,  had  belief 
in  his  reality  kept  the  creative  imagination  con- 
tinuously intent  upon  his  nature. 

The  reader  can  hardly  fail  to  see  that  all  this 
applies  with  equal  force  to  the  Christian  concep- 
tion of  the  sacred  personalities.  Christ,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  and  the  saints  may  have  been  exactly  what 
our  imagination  pictures  them  to  be;  that  is  en- 
tirely possible ;  nor  can  I  see  that  it  is  impossible 
that  the  conceptions  of  other  religions  might  them- 
selves have  actual  counterparts  somewhere  in  the 
universe.  That  is  a  question  of  faith  and  empirical 
evidence  with  which  we  are  not  here  concerned. 
But  however  descriptive  of  truth  our  conceptions 
may  be,  they  have  evidently  grown  up  in  our  minds 
by  an  inward  process  of  development.  The  mate- 
rials of  history  and  tradition  have  been  melted  and 
recast  by  the  devout  imagination  into  those  figures 
in  the  presence  of  which  our  piety  lives. 

That  is  the  reason  why  the  reconstructed  logical 
gods  of  the  metaphysicians  are  always  an  offence 
and  a  mockery  to  the  religious  consciousness. 
There  is  here,  too,  a  bare  possibility  that  some  one 
of  these  absolutes  may  be  a  representation  of  the 


FORM  189 

truth ;  but  the  method  by  which  this  representation 
is  acquired  is  violent  and  artificial;  while  the  tra- 
ditional conception  of  God  is  the  spontaneous  em- 
bodiment of  passionate  contemplation  and  long 
experience. 

As  the  God  of  religion  differs  from  that  of  meta- 
physics, so  does  the  Christ  of  tradition  differ  from 
that  of  our  critical  historians.  Even  if  we  took 
the  literal  narrative  of  the  Gospels  and  accepted  it 
as  all  we  could  know  of  Christ,  without  allowing 
ourselves  any  imaginative  interpretation  of  the 
central  figure,  we  should  get  an  ideal  of  him,  I 
will  not  say  very  different  from  that  of  St.  Erancis 
or  St.  Theresa,  but  even  from  that  of  the  English 
prayer-book.  The  Christ  men  have  loved  and 
adored  is  an  ideal  of  their  own  hearts,  the  con- 
struction of  an  ever-present  personality,  living 
and  intimately  understood,  out  of  the  fragments  of 
story  and  doctrine  connected  with  a  name.  This 
subjective  image  has  inspired  all  the  prayers,  all 
the  conversions,  all  the  penances,  charities,  and 
sacrifices,  as  well  as  half  the  art  of  the  Christian 
world. 

The  Virgin  Mary,  whose  legend  is  so  meagre, 
but  whose  power  over  the  Catholic  imagination  is 
so  great,  is  an  even  clearer  illustration  of  this 
inward  building  up  of  an  ideal  form.  Everything 
is  here  spontaneous  sympathetic  expansion  of  two 
given  events:  the  incarnation  and  the  crucifixion. 
The  figure  of  the  Virgin,  found  in  these  mighty 
scenes,  is  gradually  clarified  and  developed,  until 
we  come  to  the  thouj2:ht  on  the  one  hand  of  her 


190  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

freedom  from  original  sin,  and  on  the  other  to  that 
of  her  universal  maternity.  We  thus  attain  the 
conception  of  one  of  the  noblest  of  conceivable 
roles  and  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  charac- 
ters. It  is  a  pity  that  a  foolish  iconoclasm  should 
so  long  have  deprived  the  Protestant  mind  of  the 
contemplation  of  this  ideal. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  sign  of  the  average  imaginative 
dulness  or  fatigue  of  certain  races  and  epochs  that 
they  so  readily  abandon  these  supreme  creations. 
Por,  if  we  are  hopeful,  why  should  we  not  believe 
that  the  best  we  can  fancy  is  also  the  truest;  and 
if  we  are  distrustful  in  general  of  our  prophetic 
gifts,  why  should  we  cling  only  to  the  most  mean 
and  formless  of  our  illusions?  Prom  the  begin- 
ning to  the  end  of  our  perceptive  and  imaginative 
activity,  we  are  synthesizing  the  material  of  expe- 
rience into  unities  the  independent  reality  of  which 
is  beyond  proof,  nay,  beyond  the  possibility  of  a 
shadow  of  evidence.  And  yet  the  life  of  intelli- 
gence, like  the  joy  of  contemplation,  lies  entirely 
in  the  formation  and  inter-relation  of  these  unities. 
This  activity  yields  us  all  the  objects  with  which 
we  can  deal,  and  endows  them  with  the  finer  and 
more  intimate  part  of  their  beauty.  The  most 
perfect  of  these  forms,  judged  by  its  affinity  to  our 
powers  and  its  stability  in  the  presence  of  our  experi- 
ence, is  the  one  with  which  we  should  be  content; 
no  other  kind  of  veracity  could  add  to  its  value. 

The  greatest  feats  of  synthesis  which  the  human 
mind  has  yet  accomplished  will,  indeed,  be  probably 
surpassed  and  all  ideals  yet  formed  be  superseded, 


FORM  191 

because  they  were  not  based  upon  enough  experi- 
ence, or  did  not  fit  that  experience  with  adequate 
precision.  It  is  also  possible  that  changes  in  the 
character  of  the  facts,  or  in  the  powers  of  intelli- 
gence, should  necessitate  a  continual  reconstruc- 
tion of  our  world.  But  unless  human  nature 
suffers  an  inconceivable  change,  the  chief  intel- 
lectual and  aesthetic  value  of  our  ideas  will  always 
come  from  the  creative  action  of  the  imaorination. 


PART  IV 

EXPEESSIOX 

Expression  §  48.    We  liave  found  in  the  beauty 

of  material  and  form  the  objectification 
of  certain  pleasures  connected  with  the  process  of 
direct  perception,  with  the  formation,  in  the  one 
case  of  a  sensation,  or  quality,  in  the  other  of  a  syn- 
thesis of  sensations  or  qualities.  But  the  human 
consciousness  is  not  a  perfectly  clear  mirror,  with 
distinct  boundaries  and  clear-cut  images,  determi- 
nate in  number  and  exhaustively  perceived.  Our 
ideas  half  emerge  for  a  moment  from  the  dim 
continuum  of  vital  feeling  and  diffused  sense,  and 
are  hardly  fixed  before  they  are  changed  and 
transformed,  by  the  shifting  of  attention  and  the 
perception  of  new  relations,  into  ideas  of  really 
different  objects.  This  fluidity  of  the  mind  would 
make  reflection  impossible,  did  we  not  fix  in  words 
and  other  symbols  certain  abstract  contents;  we 
thus  become  capable  of  recognizing  in  one  percep- 
tion the  repetition  of  another,  and  of  recognizing 
in  certain  recurrences  of  impressions  a  persistent 
object.  This  discrimination  and  classification  of 
the  contents  of  consciousness  is  the  work  of  per- 
ception and  understanding,  and  the  pleasures  that 
192 


EXPRESSION  193 

accompany  these  activities  make  the  beauty  of  the 
sensible  world. 

But  our  hold  upon  our  thoughts  extends  even 
further.  We  not  only  .construct  visible  unities 
and  recognizable  types,  but  remain  aware  of  their 
affinities  to  what  is  not  at  the  time  perceived ;  that 
is,  we  find  in  them  a  certain  tendency  and  quality, 
not  original  to  them,  a  meaning  and  a  tone,  which 
upon  investigation  we  shall  see  to  have  been  the 
proper  characteristics  of  other  objects  and  feelings, 
associated  with  them  once  in  our  experience.  The 
hushed  reverberations  of  these  associated  feelings 
continue  in  the  brain,  and  by  modifying  our  pres- 
ent reaction,  colour  the  image  upon  which  our 
attention  is  fixed.  The  quality  thus  acquired  by 
objects  through  association  is  what  we  call  their 
expression.  Whereas  in  form  or  material  there  is 
one  object  with  its  emotional  effect,  in  expression 
there  are  two,  and  the  emotional  effect  belongs  to 
the  character  of  the  second  or  suggested  one.  Ex- 
pression may  thus  make  beautiful  by  suggestion 
things  in  themselves  indifferent,  or  it  may  come  to 
heighten  the  beauty  which  they  already  possess. 

Expression  is  not  always  distinguishable  in  con- 
sciousness from  the  value  of  material  or  form,  be- 
cause we  do  not  always  have  a  distinguishable 
memory  of  the  related  idea  which  the  expressive- 
ness implies.  When  we  have  such  a  memory,  as 
at  the  sight  of  some  once  frequented  garden,  we 
clearly  and  spontaneously  attribute  our  emotion  to 
the  memory  and  not  to  the  present  fact  which  it 
beautifies.  The  revival  of  a  pleasure  and  its  em- 
o 


194  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

bodiment  in  a  present  object  wliich  in  itself  might 
have  been  indifferent,  is  here  patent  and  acknowl- 
edged. 

The  distinctness  of  the  analysis  may  indeed  be 
so  great  as  to  prevent  the  synthesis;  we  may  so 
entirely  pass  to  the  suggested  object,  that  our  pleas- 
ure will  be  embodied  in  the  memory  of  that,  while 
the  suggestive  sensation  will  be  overlooked,  and 
the  expressiveness  of  the  present  object  will  fail  to 
make  it  beautiful.  Thus  the  mementos  of  a  lost 
friend  do  not  become  beautiful  by  virtue  of  the 
sentimental  associations  which  may  make  them 
precious.  The  value  is  confined  to  the  images  of 
the  memory;  they  are  too  clear  to  let  any  of  that 
value  escape  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  rest  of  our 
consciousness,  and  beautify  the  objects  which  we 
actually  behold.  We  say  explicitly :  lvalue  this 
trifle  for  its  associations.  And  so  long  as  this 
division  continues,  the  worth  of  the  thing  is  not 
for  us  aesthetic. 

But  a  little  dimming  of  our  memory  will  often 
make  it  so.  Let  the  images  of  the  past  fade, 
let  them  remain  simply  as  a  halo  and  suggestion 
of  happiness  hanging  about  a  scene;  then  this 
scene,  however  empty  and  uninteresting  in  itself, 
will  have  a  deep  and  intimate  charm;  w^e  shall  be 
pleased  by  its  very  vulgarity.  We  shall  not  con- 
fess so  readily  that  we  value  the  place  for  its  asso- 
ciations; we  shall  rather  say:  I  am  fond  of  this 
landscape;  it  has  for  me  an  ineffable  attraction. 
The  treasures  of  the  memory  have  been  melted  and 
dissolved,  and  are  now  gilding  the  object  that  sup- 


EXPRESSION  195 

plants  them;   tliey  are  giving  this  object  expres- 


sion. 


Expression  then  differs  from  material  or  formal 
value  only  as  habit  differs  from  instinct  — in  its 
origin.     Physiologically,  they  are  both  pleasurable 
radiations  of  a  given  stimulus ;  mentally,  they  are 
both  values   incorporated  in  an   object.      But  an 
observer,  looking  at  the  mind  historically,  sees  in 
the  one  case  the  survival  of  an  experience,  in  the 
other  the  reaction  of  an  innate  disposition.     This 
experience,  moreover,  is  generally  rememberable, 
and  then  the  extrinsic  source  of  the  charm  which 
expression  gives  becomes  evident  even  to  the  con- 
sciousness in  which  it  arises.     A  word,  for  instance, 
is  often  beautiful  simply  by  virtue  of  its  meaning 
and   associations;    but   sometimes  this  expressive 
beauty  is  added  to  a  musical  quality  in  the  world 
itself.     In  all  expression  we  may  thus  distinguish 
two  terms :  the  first  is  the  object  actually  presented, 
the  word,   the  image,    the  expressive  thing;    the 
second  is  the  object  suggested,  the  further  thought, 
emotion,  or  image  evoked,  the  thing  expressed. 

These  lie  together  in  the  mind,  and  their  union 
constitutes  expression.  If  the  value  lies  wholly  in 
the  first  term,  we  have  no  beauty  of  expression. 
The  decorative  inscriptions  in  Saracenic  monu- 
ments can  have  no  beauty  of  expression  for  one 
who  does  not  read  Arabic ;  their  charm  is  wholly 
one  of  material  and  form.  Or  if  they  have  any 
expression,  it  is  by  virtue  of  such  thoughts  as  they 
might  suggest,  as,  for  instance,  of  the  piety  and 
oriental  sententiousness  of  the  builders  and  of  the 


196  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

aloofness  from  iis  of  all  their  world.  And  even 
these  suggestions,  being  a  wandering  of  our  fancy 
rather  than  a  study  of  the  object,  would  fail  to 
arouse  a  pleasure  which  would  be  incorporated  in 
the  present  image.  The  scroll  would  remain  with- 
out expression,  although  its  presence  might  have 
suggested  to  us  interesting  visions  of  other  things. 
The  two  terms  would  be  too  independent,  and  the 
intrinsic  values  of  each  would  remain  distinct  from 
that  of  the  other.  There  would  be  no  visible 
expressiveness,  although  there  might  have  been 
discursive  suggestions. 

Indeed,  if  expression  were  constituted  by  the 
external  relation  of  object  with  object,  everything 
would  be  expressive  equally,  indeterminately,  and 
universally.  The  flower  in  the  crannied  wall  would 
express  the  same  thing  as  the  bust  of  Caesar  or  the 
Critique  of  Pure  Reason.  What  constitutes  the  in- 
dividual expressiveness  of  these  things  is  the  circle 
of  thoughts  allied  to  each  in  a  given  mind;  my 
words,  for  instance,  express  the  thoughts  which 
they  actually  arouse  in  the  reader;  they  may 
express  more  to  one  man  than  to  anotlier,  and  to 
me  they  may  have  expressed  more  or  less  than  to 
you.  My  thoughts  remain  unexpressed,  if  my 
words  do  not  arouse  them  in  you,  and  very  likely 
your  greater  wisdom  will  find  in  what  I  say  the 
manifestation  of  a  thousand  principles  of  which  I 
never  dreamed.  Expression  depends  upon  the 
union  of  two  terms,  one  of  which  must  be  fur- 
nished by  the  imagination;  and  a  mind  cannot 
furnish  what  it  does  not  possess.     The  expressive- 


EXPRESSION  197 

ness  of  everything  accordingly  increases  with  the 
intelligence  of  the  observer. 

But  for  expression  to  be  an  element  of  beauty,  it 
must,  of  course,  fulfil  another  condition.  I  may 
see  the  relations  of  an  object,  I  may  understand  it 
perfectly,  and  may  nevertheless  regard  it  with  en- 
tire indifference.  If  the  pleasure  fails,  the  very 
substance  and  protoplasm  of  beauty  is  wanting. 
Nor,  as  we  have  seen,  is  even  the  pleasure  enough ; 
for  I  may  receive  a  letter  full  of  the  most  joj^ous 
news,  but  neither  the  paper,  nor  the  writing,  nor 
the  style,  need  seem  beautiful  to  me.  Not  until  I 
confound  the  impressions,  and  suffuse  the  symbols 
themselves  with  the  emotions  they  arouse,  and  find 
joy  and  sweetness  in  the  very  words  I  hear,  will 
the  expressiveness  constitute  a  beauty;  as  when 
they  sing,  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 

The  value  of  the  second  term  must  be  incor- 
porated in  the  first;  for  the  beauty  of  expression 
is  as  inherent  in  the  object  as  that  of  material 
or  form,  only  it  accrues  to  that  object  not  from 
the  bare  act  of  perception,  but  from  the  associa- 
tion with  it  of  further  processes,  due  to  the  exist- 
ence of  former  impressions.  We  may  conveniently 
use  the  word  "expressiveness"  to  mean  all  the 
capacity  of  suggestion  possessed  by  a  thing,  and 
the  word  "expression"  for  the  aesthetic  modifi- 
cation which  that  expressiveness  may  cause  in  it. 
Expressiveness  is  thus  the  power  given  by  expe- 
rience to  any  image  to  call  up  others  in  the  mind; 
and  this  expressiveness  becomes  an  aesthetic  value, 
that  is,  becomes  expression,  when  the  value  in- 


198  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

volved  in  the  associations  thus  awakened  are  incor- 
porated in  the  present  object. 

Theassocia-  §  49.    The  purcst   casc   in  which  an 

we  process,  expressivc  value  could  arise  might  seem 
to  be  that  in  which  both  terms  were  indifferent  in 
themselv^es,  and  what  pleased  was  the  activity  of 
relating  them.  We  have  such  a  phenomenon  in 
mathemo.tics,  and  in  any  riddle,  puzzle,  or  play 
with  S3mibols.  But  such  pleasures  fall  without 
the  aesthetic  field  in  the  absence  of  any  objectifica- 
tion;  they  are  pleasures  of  exercise,  and  the  objects 
involved  are  not  regarded  as  the  substances  in  which 
those  values  inhere.  We  think  of  more  or  less  in- 
teresting problems  or  calculations,  but  it  never 
occurs  to  the  mathematician  to  establish  a  hier- 
archy of  forms  according  to  their  beauty.  Only  by 
a  metaphor  could  he  say  the  (a  +  6)^  =  a^  -f-  2ab  +  b^ 
was  a  more  beautiful  formula  than  2  +  2  =  4.  Yet 
in  proportion  as  such  conceptions  become  definite 
and  objective  in  the  mind,  they  approach  aesthetic 
values,  and  the  use  of  aesthetic  epithets  in  describ- 
ing them  becomes  more  constant  and  literal. 

The  beauties  of  abstract  music  are  but  one  step 
beyond  such  mathematical  relations  —  they  are 
those  relations  presented  in  a  sensible  form,  and 
constituting  an  imaginable  object.  But,  as  we  see 
clearly  in  this  last  case,  when  the  relation  and  not 
the  terms  constitute  the  object,  we  have,  if  there 
is  beauty  at  all,  a  beauty  of  form,  not  of  expres- 
sion ;  for  the  more  mathematical  the  charm  of 
music  is,  the  more  form  and  the  less  expression 


EXPRESSION  199 

do  we  see  in  it.  In  fact,  the  sense  of  relation  is 
here  the  essence  of  the  object  itself,  and  the 
activity  of  passing  from  term  to  term,  far  from 
taking  us  beyond  our  presentation  to  something 
extrinsic,  constitutes  that  presentation.  The 
pleasure  of  this  relational  activity  is  therefore 
the  pleasure  of  conceiving  a  determined  form,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  thoroughly  a  formal  beauty. 

And  we  may  here  insist  upon  a  point  of  funda- 
mental importance;  namely,  that  the  process  of 
association  enters  consciousness  as  directly,  and 
produces  as  simple  a  sensation,  as  any  process  in 
any  organ.  The  pleasures  and  pains  of  cerebra- 
tion, the  delight  and  the  fatigue  of  it,  are  felt 
exactly  like  bodily  impressions;  they  have  the 
same  directness,  although  not  the  same  localiza- 
tion. Their  seat  is  not  open  to  our  daily  observa- 
tion, and  therefore  we  leave  them  disembodied,  and 
fancy  they  are  peculiarly  spiritual  and  intimate  to 
the  soul.  Or  we  try  to  think  that  they  flow  by 
some  logical  necessity  from  the  essences  of  objects 
simultaneously  in  our  mind.  We  involve  our- 
selves in  endless  perplexities  in  trying  to  deduce 
excellence  and  beauty,  unity  and  necessity,  from 
the  describable  qualities  of  things;  we  repeat  the 
rationalistic  fiction  of  turning  the  notions  which 
we  abstract  from  the  observation  of  facts  into  the 
powers  that  give  those  facts  character  and  being. 

We  have,  for  instance,  in  the  presence  of  two  im- 
ages a  sense  of  their  incongruity;  and  we  say  that 
the  character  of  the  images  causes  this  emotion; 
whereas  in  dreams  we   constantly  have  the  most 


200  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

rapid  transformations  and  x^atent  contradictions 
without  any  sense  of  incongruity  at  all;  because 
the  brain  is  dozing  and  the  necessary  shock  and 
mental  inhibition  is  avoided.  Add  this  stimula- 
tion, and  the  incongruity  returns.  Had  such  a 
shock  never  been  felt,  we  should  not  know  what 
incongruity  meant;  no  more  than  without  eyes  we 
should  know  the  meaning  of  blue  or  yellow. 

In  saying  this,  we  are  not  really  leaning  upon 
physiological  theory.  The  appeal  to  our  knowledge 
of  the  brain  facilitates  the  conce23tion  of  the  imme- 
diacy of  our  feelings  of  relation ;  but  that  immediacy 
would  be  apparent  to  a  sharp  introspection.  We 
do  not  need  to  think  of  the  eye  or  skin  to  feel  that 
light  and  heat  are  ultimate  data;  no  more  do  we 
need  to  think  of  cerebral  excitements  to  see  that 
right  and  left,  before  and  after,  good  and  bad,  one 
and  two,  like  and  unlike,  are  irreducible  feelings. 
The  categories  are  senses  without  organs,  or  with 
organs  unknown.  Just  as  the  discrimination  of  our 
feelings  of  colour  and  sound  might  never  have  been 
distinct  and  constant,  had  we  not  come  upon  the 
organs  that  seem  to  convey  and  control  them;  so 
perhaps  our  classification  of  our  inner  sensations 
will  never  be  settled  until  their  respective  organs 
are  discovered;  for  psychology  has  always  been 
physiological,  without  knowing  it.  But  this  truth 
remains  —  quite  apart  from  physical  conceptions, 
not  to  speak  of  metaphysical  materialism  —  that 
whatever  the  historical  conditions  of  any  state  of 
mind  may  be  said  to  be,  it  exists,  when  it  does 
exist,  immediately  and  absolutely ;  each  of  its  dis- 


EXPRESSION  201 

tinguishable  parts  might  conceivably  have  been 
absent  from  it;  and  its  character,  as  well  as  its 
existence,  is  a  mere  datum  of  sense. 

The  pleasure  that  belongs  to  the  consciousness  of 
relations  is  therefore  as  immediate  as  any  other ;  in- 
deed, our  emotional  consciousness  is  always  single, 
but  we  treat  it  as  a  resultant  of  many  and  even  of 
conflicting  feelings  because  we  look  at  it  histori- 
cally with  a  view  to  comprehending  it,  and  distrib- 
ute it  into  as  many  factors  as  we  find  objects  or 
causes  to  which  to  attribute  it.  The  pleasure  of  asso- 
ciation is  an  immediate  feeling,  which  we  account 
for  by  its  relation  to  a  feeling  in  the  past,  or  to 
cerebral  structure  modified  by  a  former  experience ; 
just  as  memory  itself,  which  we  explain  by  a  refer- 
ence to  the  past,  is  a  peculiar  complication  of 
present  consciousness. 

§  50.    These  reflections  may  make  less  Kinds  of  uaiue 

.  1      1    •      ^1  .      .     •!        in  the  second 

surprising  to  us  what  is  the  most  strik-  fg^;„, 
ing  fact  about  the  philosophy  of  exx^res- 
sion;  namely,  that  the  value  acquired  by  the 
expressive  thing  is  often  of  an  entirely  different 
kind  from  that  which  the  thing  expressed  pos- 
sesses. The  expression  of  physical  pleasure,  of 
passion,  or  even  of  pain,  may  constitute  beauty 
and  please  the  beholder.  Thus  the  value  of  the 
second  term  may  be  physical,  or  practical,  or  even 
negative ;  and  it  may  be  transmuted,  as  it  passes  to 
the  first  term,  into  a  value  at  once  positive  and 
sesthetic.  The  transformation  of  practical  values 
into  aesthetic  has  often  been  noted,  and  has  even 


202  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

led  to  tlie  theory  that  beauty  is  utility  seen  at  arm's 
length;  a  premonition  of  pleasure  and  prosperity, 
much  as  smell  is  a  premonition  of  taste.  The  trans- 
formation of  negative  values  into  positive  has  nat- 
urally attracted  even  more  attention,  and  given  rise 
to  various  theories  of  the  comic,  tragic,  and  sub- 
lime. For  these  three  species  of  aesthetic  good 
seem  to  please  us  by  the  suggestion  of  evil;  and 
the  problem  arises  how  a  mind  can  be  made  hap- 
pier by  having  suggestions  of  unhappiness  stirred 
within  it;  an  unhappiness  it  cannot  understand 
without  in  some  degree  sharing  in  it.  We  must 
now  turn  to  the  analysis  of  this  question. 

The  expressiveness  of  a  smile  is  not  discovered 
exactly  through  association  of  images.  The  child 
smiles  (without  knowing  it)  when  he  feels  pleas- 
ure; and  the  nurse  smiles  back;  his  own  pleasure 
is  associated  with  her  conduct,  and  her  smile  is 
therefore  expressive  of  pleasure.  The  fact  of  his 
pleasure  at  her  smile  is  the  ground  of  his  instinc- 
tive belief  in  her  pleasure  in  it.  For  this  reason 
the  circumstances  expressive  of  happiness  are  not 
those  that  are  favourable  to  it  in  reality,  but  those 
that  are  congruous  with  it  in  idea.  The  green  of 
spring,  the  bloom  of  youth,  the  variability  of  child- 
hood, the  splendour  of  wealth  and  beauty,  all  these 
are  symbols  of  happiness,  not  because  they  have 
been  known  to  accompany  it  in  fact, —  for  they  do 
not,  any  more  than  their  opposites, — but  because 
they  produce  an  image  and  echo  of  it  in  us  sestheti- 
cally.  We  believe  those  things  to  be  happy  which 
it  makes  us  happy  to  think  of  or  to  see ;  the  belief  in 


EXPRESSION  203 

the  blessedness  of  the  supreme  being  itself  has  no 
other  foundation.  Our  joy  in  the  thought  of  omni- 
science makes  us  attribute  joy  to  the  possession  of 
it,  which  it  would  in  fact  perhaps  be  very  far  from 
involving  or  even  allowing. 

The  expressiveness  of  forms  has  a  value  as  a 
sign  of  the  life  that  actually  inhabits  those  forms 
only  when  they  resemble  our  own  body  ;  it  is 
then  probable  that  similar  conditions  of  body 
involve,  in  them  and  in  us,  similar  emotions; 
and  we  should  not  long  continue  to  regard  as 
the  expression  of  pleasure  an  attitude  that  we 
know,  by  experience  in  our  own  person,  to  ac- 
company pain.  Children,  indeed,  may  innocently 
torture  animals,  not  having  enough  sense  of  anal- 
ogy to  be  stopped  by  the  painful  suggestions  of 
their  writhings ;  and,  although  in  a  rough  way  we 
soon  correct  these  crying  misinterpretations  by  a 
better  classilication  of  experience,  we  nevertheless 
remain  essentially  subject  to  the  same  error.  We 
cannot  escape  it,  because  the  method  which  involves 
it  is  the  only  one  that  justifies  belief  in  objective 
consciousness  at  all.  Analogy  of  bodies  helps  us 
to  distribute  and  classify  the  life  we  conceive  about 
us ;  but  what  leads  us  to  conceive  it  is  the  direct 
association  of  our  own  feeling  with  images  of  things, 
an  association  which  precedes  any  clear  represen- 
tation of  our  own  gestures  and  attitude.  I  know 
that  smiles  mean  pleasure  before  I  have  caught 
myself  smiling  in  the  glass;  they  mean  pleasure 
because  they  give  it. 

Since  these  eesthetic  eifects  include  some  of  the 


204  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

most  moving  and  profound  beauties,  philosophers 
have  not  been  slow  to  turn  the  unanalyzed  paradox 
of  their  formation  into  a  principle,  and  to  explain 
by  it  the  presence  and  necessity  of  evil.  As  in  the 
tragic  and  the  sublime,  they  have  thought,  the  suf- 
ferings and  dangers  to  which  a  hero  is  exposed 
seem  to  add  to  his  virtue  and  dignity,  and  to  our 
sacred  joy  in  the  contemplation  of  him,  so  the 
sundry  evils  of  life  may  be  elements  in  the  tran- 
scendent glory  of  the  whole.  And  once  fired  by 
this  thought,  those  who  pretend  to  justify  the  ways 
of  God  to  man  have,  naturally,  not  stopped  to  con- 
sider whether  so  edifying  a  phenomenon  was  not  a 
hasty  illusion.  They  have,  indeed,  detested  any 
attempt  to  explain  it  rationally,  as  tending  to  ob- 
scure one  of  the  moral  laws  of  the  universe.  In 
venturing,  therefore,  to  repeat  such  an  attempt,  we 
should  not  be  too  sanguine  of  success ;  for  we  have 
to  encounter  not  only  the  intrinsic  difficulties  of 
the  problem,  but  also  a  wide-spread  and  arrogant 
metaphysical  prejudice. 

For  the  sake  of  greater  clearness  we  may  begin 
by  classifying  the  values  that  can  enter  into  ex- 
pression; we  shall  then  be  better  able  to  judge 
by  what  combinations  of  them  various  well-known 
effects  and  emotions  are  produced.  The  intrinsic 
value  of  the  first  term  can  be  entirely  neglected, 
since  it  does  not  contribute  to  expression.  It 
does,  however,  contribute  greatly  to  the  beauty 
of  the  expressive  object.  The  first  term  is  the 
source  of  stimulation,  and  the  acuteness  and  pleas- 
antness of  this   determine  to  a  great  extent  the 


EXPRESSION  205 

character  and  sweep  of  the  associations  that  will 
be  aroused.  Very  often  the  pleasantness  of  the 
medium  will  counterbalance  the  disagreeableness  of 
the  import,  and  expressions,  in  themselves  hideous 
or  inappropriate,  may  be  excused  for  the  sake  of 
the  object  that  conveys  them.  A  beautiful  voice 
will  redeem  a  vulgar  song,  a  beautiful  colour  and 
texture  an  unmeaning  composition.  Beauty  in  the 
first  term  —  beauty  of  sound,  rhythm,  and  image 
—  will  make  any  thought  whatever  poetic,  while 
no  thought  whatever  can  be  so  without  that  imme- 
diate beauty  of  presentation.^ 

§  51.  That  the  noble  associations  of  /Esthetic  value 
any  object  should  embellish  that  object  fem." 
is  very  comprehensible.  Homer  fur- 
nishes us  with  a  good  illustration  of  the  constant 
employment  of  this  effect.  Tlie  first  term,  one  need 
hardly  say,  leaves  with  him  little  to  be  desired. 
The  verse  is  beautiful.  Sounds,  images,  and  com- 
position conspire  to  stimulate  and  delight.  This 
immediate  beauty  is  sometimes  used  to  clothe 
things  terrible  and  sad;  there  is  no  dearth  of  the 
tragic  in  Homer.  But  the  tendency  of  his  poetry 
is  nevertheless  to  fill  the  outskirts  of  our  conscious- 

1  Curiously  enough,  common  speech  here  reverses  our  use  of 
terms,  because  it  looks  at  the  matter  from  the  practical  instead 
of  from  the  aesthetic  point  of  view,  regarding  (very  unpsycho- 
logically)  the  thought  as  the  source  of  the  image,  not  the  image 
as  the  source  of  the  thought.  People  call  the  words  the  expres- 
sion of  the  thought :  whereas  for  the  observer,  the  hearer  (and 
generally  for  the  speaker,  too) ,  the  words  are  the  datum  and 
the  thought  is  their  expressiveness  —  that  which  they  suggest. 


206  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ness  with  the  trooping  images  of  things  no  less  fair 
and  noble  than  the  verse  itself.  The  heroes  are 
virtuous.  There  is  none  of  importance  who  is  not 
admirable  in  his  way.  The  palaces,  the  arms,  the 
horses,  the  sacrifices,  are  always  excellent.  The 
women  are  always  stately  and  beautiful.  The  an- 
cestry and  the  history  of  every  one  are  honourable 
and  good.  The  whole  Homeric  world  is  clean, 
clear,  beautiful,  and  providential,  and  no  small 
part  of  the  perennial  charm  of  the  poet  is  that  he 
thus  immerses  us  in  an  atmosphere  of  beauty;  a 
beauty  not  concentrated  and  reserved  for  some 
extraordinary  sentiment,  action,  or  person,  but 
permeating  the  whole  and  colouring  the  common 
world  of  soldiers  and  sailors,  war  and  craft,  with 
a  marvellous  freshness  and  inward  glow.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  associations  of  life  in  this  world 
or  in  another  to  contradict  or  disturb  our  delight. 
All  is  beautiful,  and  beautiful  through  and  through. 
Something  of  this  quality  meets  us  in  all  simple 
and  idyllic  compositions.  There  is,  for  instance,  a 
popular  demand  that  stories  and  comedies  should 
"end  well."  The  hero  and  heroine  must  be  young 
and  handsome ;  unless  they  die,  —  which  is  another 
matter,  —  they  must  not  in  the  end  be  poor.  The 
landscape  in  the  play  must  be  beautiful;  the 
dresses  pretty;  the  plot  without  serious  mishap. 
A  pervasive  presentation  of  pleasure  must  give 
warmth  and  ideality  to  the  whole.  In  the  pro- 
prieties of  social  life  we  find  the  same  principle ; 
we  study  to  make  our  surroundings,  manner,  and 
conversation  suggest  nothing  but  what  is  pleasing. 


EXPRESSION  207 

We  hide  the  ugly  and  disagreeable  portion  of  our 
lives,  and  do  not  allow  the  least  hint  o^  it  to  come 
to  light  upon  festive  and  public  occasions.  When- 
ever, in  a  word,  a  thoroughly  pleasing  effect  is 
found,  it  is  found  by  the  expression,  as  well  as 
presentation,  of  what  is  in  itself  pleasing  —  and 
when  this  effect  is  to  be  produced  artificially, 
we  attain  it  by  the  suppression  of  all  expression 
that  is  not  suggestive  of  something  good. 

If  our  consciousness  were  exclusively  aesthetic, 
this  kind  of  expression  would  be  the  only  one 
allowed  in  art  or  prized  in  nature.  We  should 
avoid  as  a  shock  or  an  insipidity,  the  suggestion 
of  anything  not  intrinsically  beautiful.  As  there 
would  be  no  values  not  aesthetic,  our  pleasure  could 
never  be  heightened  by  any  other  kind  of  interest. 
But  as  contemplation  is  actually  a  luxury  in  our 
lives,  and  things  interest  us  chiefly  on  passionate 
and  practical  grounds,  the  accumulation  of  values 
too  exclusively  aesthetic  produces  in  our  minds  an 
effect  of  closeness  and  artificiality.  So  selective  a 
diet  cloys,  and  our  palate,  accustomed  to  much  daily 
vinegar  and  salt,  is  surfeited  by  such  unmixed  sweet. 

Instead  we  prefer  to  see  through  the  medium  of 
art  —  through  the  beautiful  first  term  of  our  ex- 
pression—  the  miscellaneous  world  which  is  so 
well  known  to  us  —  perhaps  so  dear,  and  at  any  rate 
so  inevitable,  an  object.  We  are  more  thankful  for 
this  presentation  of  the  unlovely  truth  in  a  lovely 
form,  than  for  the  like  presentation  of  an  abstract 
beauty;  what  is  lost  in  the  purity  of  the  pleasure 
is  gained  in  the  stimulation  of  our  attention,  and 


208  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

in  the  relief  of  viewing  with  aesthetic  detachment 
the  same  things  that  in  practical  life  hold  tyran- 
nous dominion  over  our  souls.  The  beauty  that  is 
associated  only  with  other  beauty  is  therefore  a 
sort  of  aesthetic  dainty;  it  leads  the  fancy  through 
a  fairyland  of  lovely  forms,  where  we  must  forget 
the  common  objects  of  our  interest.  The  charm  of 
such  an  idealization  is  undeniable;  but  the  other 
important  elements  of  our  memory  and  will  cannot 
long  be  banished.  Thoughts  of  labour,  ambition, 
lust,  anger,  confusion,  sorrow,  and  death  must 
needs  mix  with  our  contemplation  and  lend  their 
various  expressions  to  the  objects  with  which  in 
experience  they  are  so  closely  allied.  Hence  the 
incorporation  in  the  beautiful  of  values  of  other 
sorts,  and  the  comparative  rareness  in  nature  or 
art  of  expressions  the  second  term  of  which  has 
only  aesthetic  value. 

Practical  value       §  52.    More  important  and  frequent  is 

in  the  same.        ,,  r?    ii  •  n       --ti. 

the  case  oi  the  expression  oi  utility. 
This  is  found  whenever  the  second  term  is  the  idea 
of  something  of  practical  advantage  to  us,  the  pre- 
monition of  which  brings  satisfaction;  and  this 
satisfaction  prompts  an  approval  of  the  presented 
object.  The  tone  of  our  consciousness  is  raised 
by  the  foretaste  of  a  success;  and  this  heightened 
pleasure  is  objectified  in  the  present  image,  since 
the  associated  image  to  which  the  satisfaction  prop- 
erly belongs  often  fails  to  become  distinct.  We  do 
not  conceive  clearly  what  this  practical  advantage 
will  be;  but  the  vague  sense  that  an  advantage  is 


EXPRESSION  209 

there,  that  something  desirable  has  been  done,  ac- 
companies the  presentation,  and  gives  it  expression. 

The  case  that  most  resembles  that  of  which  we 
liave  been  just  speaking,  is  perhaps  that  in  which 
the  second  term  is  a  piece  of  interesting  information, 
a  theory,  or  other  intellectual  datum.  Our  interest 
in  facts  and  theories,  when  not  aesthetic,  is  of  course 
practical ;  it  consists  in  their  connexion  with  our 
interests,  and  in  the  service  they  can  render  us  in 
the  execution  of  our  designs.  Intellectual  values 
are  utilitarian  in  their  origin  but  aesthetic  in  their 
form,  since  the  advantage  of  knowledge  is  often  lost 
sight  of,  and  ideas  are  prized  for  their  own  sake. 
Curiosity  can  become  a  disinterested  passion,  and 
yield  intimate  and  immediate  satisfaction  like  any 
other  impulse. 

When  we  have  before  us,  for  instance,  a  fine 
map,  in  which  the  line  of  coast,  now  rocky,  now 
sandy,  is  clearly  indicated,  together  with  the  wind- 
ings of  the  rivers,  the  elevations  of  the  land,  and 
the  distribution  of  the  population,  we  have  the  sim- 
ultaneous suggestion  of  so  many  facts,  the  sense 
of  mastery  over  so  much  reality,  that  we  gaze 
at  it  with  delight,  and  need  no  practical  motive  to 
keep  us  studying  it,  perhaps  for  hours  together. 
A  map  is  not  naturally  thought  of  as  an  aesthetic 
object;  it  is  too  exclusively  expressive.  The  first 
term  is  passed  over  as  a  mere  symbol,  and  the  mind 
is  filled  either  with  imaginations  of  the  landscape 
the  country  would  really  offer,  or  with  thoughts 
about  its  history  and  inhabitants.  These  circum- 
stances  prevent  the   ready   objectification  of  our 


210  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

pleasure  in  the  map  itself.  And  yet,  let  the  tints  of 
it  be  a  little  subtle,  let  the  lines  be  a  little  delicate, 
and  the  masses  of  land  and  sea  somewhat  balanced, 
and  we  really  have  a  beautiful  thing;  a  thing  the 
charm  of  which  consists  almost  entirely  in  its  mean- 
ing, but  which  nevertheless  pleases  us  in  the  same 
way  as  a  picture  or  a  graphic  symbol  might  please. 
Give  the  symbol  a  little  intrinsic  worth  of  form, 
line,  and  colour,  and  it  attracts  like  a  magnet  all 
the  values  of  the  things  it  is  known  to  symbolize. 
It  becomes  beautiful  in  its  expressiveness. 

Hardly  different  from  this  example  is  that  of 
travel  or  of  reading;  for  in  these  employments  we 
get  many  aesthetic  pleasures,  the  origin  of  which 
is  in  the  satisfaction  of  curiosity  and  intelligence. 
When  we  say  admiringly  of  anything  that  it  is 
characteristic,  that  it  embodies  a  whole  period  or 
a  whole  man,  we  are  absorbed  by  the  pleasant 
sense  that  it  offers  innumerable  avenues  of  ap]3roach 
to  interesting  and  important  things.  The  less  we 
are  able  to  specify  what  these  are,  the  more  beau- 
tiful will  the  object  be  that  expresses  them.  For 
if  we  could  specify  them,  the  felt  value  would 
disintegrate,  and  distribute  itself  among  the  ideas 
of  the  suggested  things,  leaving  the  expressive 
object  bare  of  all  interest,  like  the  letters  of  a 
printed  page. 

The  courtiers  of  Philip  the  Second  probably 
did  not  regard  his  rooms  at  the  Escurial  as  par- 
ticularly interesting,  but  simply  as  small,  ugly, 
and  damp.  The  character  which  we  find  in  them 
and  which  makes   us    regard   them  as  eminently 


EXPRESSION  211 

expressive  of  whatever  was  sinister  in  the  man, 
probably  did  not  strike  them.  They  knew  the 
king,  and  had  before  them  words,  gestures,  and 
acts  enough  in  which  to  read  his  character.  But 
all  these  living  facts  are  wanting  to  our  experi- 
ence; and  it  is  the  suggestion  of  them  in  their 
unrealizable  vagueness  that  fills  the  apartments  of 
the  monarch  with  such  pungent  expression.  It  is 
not  otherwise  with  all  emphatic  expressiveness  — 
moonlight  and  castle  moats,  minarets  and  cypresses, 
camels  filing  through  the  desert  —  such  images  get 
their  character  from  the  strong  but  misty  atmos- 
phere of  sentiment  and  adventure  which  clings 
about  them.  The  profit  of  travel,  and  the  extraor- 
dinary charm  of  all  visible  relics  of  antiquity, 
consists  in  the  acquisition  of  images  in  which  to 
focus  a  mass  of  discursive  knowledge,  not  otherwise 
felt  together.  Such  images  are  concrete  symbols 
of  much  latent  experience,  and  the  deep  roots  of 
association  give  them  the  same  hold  upon  our  atten- 
tion which  might  be  secured  by  a  fortunate  form  or 
splendid  material. 

§  53.  There  is  one  consideration  costasaneie- 
which  often  adds  much  to  the  interest  "'^" 
with  which  we  view  an  object,  but  which  we 
might  be  virtuously  inclined  not  to  admit  among 
aesthetic  values.  I  mean  cost.  Cost  is  practical 
value  expressed  in  abstract  terms,  and  from  the 
price  of  anything  we  can  often  infer  what  rela- 
tion it  has  to  the  desires  and  efforts  of  mankind. 
There  is  no  reason  why  cost,  or  the  circumstances 


212  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

wliicli  are  its  basis,  should  not,  like  other  prac- 
tical values,  heighten  the  tone  of  consciousness, 
and  add  to  the  pleasure  with  which  we  view  an 
object.  In  fact,  such  is  our  daily  experience;  for 
great  as  is  the  sensuous  beauty  of  gems,  their 
rarity  and  price  adds  an  expression  of  distinction 
to  them,  which  they  would  never  have  if  they  were 
cheap. 

The  circumstance  that  makes  the  appreciation 
of  cost  often  umesthetic  is  the  abstractness  of  that 
quality.  The  price  of  an  object  is  an  algebraic 
symbol,  it  is  a  conventional  term,  invented  to 
facilitate  our  operations,  which  remains  arid  and 
unmeaning  if  we  stop  with  it  and  forget  to 
translate  it  again  at  the  end  into  its  concrete 
equivalent.  The  commercial  mind  dwells  in  that 
intermediate  limbo  of  symbolized  values;  the  cal- 
culator's senses  are  muffled  by  his  intellect  and 
by  his  habit  of  abbreviated  thinking.  His  mental 
process  is  a  reckoning  that  loses  sight  of  its  original 
values,  and  is  over  without  reaching  any  concrete 
image.  Therefore  the  knowledge  of  cost,  when 
expressed  in  terms  of  money,  is  incapable  of  con- 
tributing to  aesthetic  effect,  but  the  reason  is  not 
so  much  that  the  suggested  value  is  not  aesthetic, 
as  that  no  real  value  is  suggested  at  all.  Xo 
object  of  any  kind  is  presented  to  the  mind  by 
the  numerical  expression.  If  we  reinterpret  our 
price,  however,  and  translate  it  back  into  the  facts 
which  constitute  it,  into  the  materials  employed, 
their  original  place  and  quality,  and  the  labour 
and  art  which  transformed  them  into  the  jDresent 


EXPRESSION  213 

thing,  then  we  add  to  the  aesthetic  value  of  the 
object,  by  the  expression  which  we  find  in  it,  not 
of  its  price  in  money,  but  of  its  human  cost.  We 
have  now  the  consciousness  of  the  real  values 
which  it  represents,  and  these  values,  sympatheti- 
cally present  to  the  fancy,  increase  our  present 
interest  and  admiration. 

I  believe  economists  count  among  the  elements  of 
the  value  of  an  object  the  rarity  of  its  material,  the 
labour  of  its  manufacture,  and  the  distance  from 
which  it  is  brought.  Kow  all  these  qualities,  if  at- 
tended to  in  themselves,  appeal  greatly  to  the  imagi- 
nation. We  have  a  natural  interest  in  what  is  rare 
and  affects  us  with  unusual  sensations.  What  comes 
from  a  far  country  carries  our  thoughts  there,  and 
gains  by  the  wealth  and  picturesqueness  of  its 
associations.  And  that  on  which  human  labour 
has  been  spent,  especially  if  it  was  a  labour  of 
love,  and  is  apparent  in  the  product,  has  one  of 
the  deepest  possible  claims  to  admiration.  So 
that  the  standard  of  cost,  the  most  vulgar  of  all 
standards,  is  such  only  when  it  remains  empty 
and  abstract.  Let  the  thoughts  wander  back  and 
consider  the  elements  of  value,  and  our  apprecia- 
tion, from  being  verbal  and  commercial,  becomes 
poetic  and  real. 

We  have  in  this  one  more  example  of  the  manner 
in  which  practical  values,  when  suggested  by  and 
incorporated  in  any  object,  contribute  to  its  beauty. 
Our  sense  of  what  lies  behind,  unlovely  though 
that  background  may  be,  gives  interest  and  poig- 
nancy to  that  which  is  present;  our  attention  and 


214  TIIE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

wonder  are  engaged,  and  a  new  meaning  and 
importance  is  added  to  such  intrinsic  beauty  as 
the  presentation  may  possess. 

The  expression  §  54.  The  same  principle  explains  the 
aiTfitness.  effect  of  evident  cleanliness,  security, 
economy,  and  comfort.  This  Dutch 
charm  hardly  needs  explanation ;  we  are  conscious 
of  the  domesticity  and  neatness  which  pleases  us 
in  it.  There  are  few  things  more  utterly  discom- 
forting to  our  minds  than  waste:  it  is  a  sort  of 
pungent  extract  and  quintessence  of  folly.  The 
visible  manifestation  of  it  is  therefore  very  offen- 
sive ;  and  that  of  its  absence  very  reassuring.  The 
force  of  our  approval  of  practical  fitness  and  econ- 
omy in  things  rises  into  an  appreciation  that  is 
half -aesthetic,  and  which  becomes  wholly  so  when 
the  fit  form  becomes  fixed  in  a  type,  to  the  lines 
of  which  we  are  accustomed;  so  that  the  practical 
necessity  of  the  form  is  heightened  and  concen- 
trated into  the  sesthetic  propriety  of  it. 

The  much-praised  expression  of  function  and 
truth  in  architectural  works  reduces  itself  to  this 
principle.  The  useful  contrivance  at  first  appeals 
to  our  practical  approval;  while  we  admire  its 
ingenuity,  we  cannot  fail  to  become  gradually 
accustomed  to  its  presence,  and  to  register  with 
attentive  pleasure  the  relation  of  its  parts.  Util- 
ity, as  we  have  pointed  out  in  its  place,  is  thus 
the  guiding  principle  in  the  determination  of 
forms. 

The  recurring  observation  of  the  utility,  econ- 


EXPRESSION  215 

omy,  and  fitness  of  tlie  traditional  arrangement  in 
buildings  or  otlier  products  of  art,  re-enforces  tliis 
formal  expectation  with  a  reflective  approval.  We 
are  accustomed,  for  instance,  to  sloping  roofs ;  the 
fact  that  they  were  necessary  has  made  them 
familiar,  and  the  fact  that  they  are  familiar  has 
made  them  objects  of  study  and  of  artistic  enjoy- 
ment. If  at  any  moment,  however,  the  notion  of 
condemning  them  passes  through  the  mind,  —  if  we 
have  visions  of  the  balustrade  against  tiie  sky,  — 
we  revert  to  our  homely  image  with  kindly  loyalty, 
when  we  remember  the  long  months  of  rain  and 
snow,  and  the  comfortless  leaks  to  be  avoided. 
The  thought  of  a  glaring,  practical  unfitness  is 
enough  to  spoil  our  pleasure  in  any  form,  however 
beautiful  intrinsically,  while  the  sense  of  practical 
fitness  is  enough  to  reconcile  us  to  the  most  awk- 
ward and  rude  contrivances. 

This  principle  is,  indeed,  not  a  fundamental,  but 
an  auxiliary  one;  the  expression  of  utility  modifies 
effect,  but  does  not  constitute  it.  There  would  be 
a  kind  of  superstitious  haste  in  the  notion  that 
what  is  convenient  and  economical  is  necessarily 
and  by  miracle  beautiful.  The  uses  and  habits  of 
one  place  and  society  require  works  which  are  or 
may  easily  become  intrinsically  beautiful ;  the  uses 
and  habits  of  another  make  these  beautiful  works 
impossible.  The  beauty  has  a  material  and  formal 
basis  that  we  have  already  studied;  no  fitness  of 
design  will  make  a  building  of  ten  equal  storeys  as 
beautiful  as  a  pavilion  or  a  finely  proportioned 
tower;  no  utility  will  make  a  steamboat  as  beau- 


216  THE   SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

tiful  as  a  sailing  vessel.  But  the  forms  once 
established,  with  their  various  intrinsic  charac- 
ters, the  fitness  we  know  to  exist  in  them  will 
lend  them  some  added  charm,  or  their  unfitness 
will  disquiet  us,  and  haunt  us  like  a  conscien- 
tious qualm.  The  other  interests  of  our  lives  here 
mingle  with  the  purely  sesthetic,  to  enrich  or  to 
embitter  it. 

If  Sybaris  is  so  sad  a  name  to  the  memory  —  and 
who  is  without  some  Sybaris  of  his  own?  —  if  the 
image  of  it  is  so  tormenting  and  in  the  end  so 
disgusting,  this  is  not  because  we  no  longer  think 
its  marbles  bright,  its  fountains  cool,  its  athletes 
strong,  or  its  roses  fragrant;  but  because,  mingled 
with  all  these  supreme  beauties,  there  is  the 
ubiquitous  shade  of  Xemesis,  the  sense  of  a  vacant 
will  and  a  suicidal  inhumanity.  The  intolerable- 
ness  of  this  moral  condition  poisons  the  beauty 
which  continues  to  be  felt.  If  this  beauty  did  not 
exist,  and  was  not  still  desired,  the  tragedy  woukl 
disappear  and  Jehovah  would  be  deprived  of  the 
worth  of  his  victim.  The  sternness  of  moral 
forces  lies  precisely  in  this,  that  the  sacrifices 
morality  imposes  upon  us  are  real,  that  the  things 
it  renders  impossible  are  still  precious. 

We  are  accustomed  to  think  of  prudence  as 
estranging  us  only  from  low  and  ignoble  things; 
we  forget  that  utility  and  the  need  of  system  in 
our  lives  is  a  bar  also  to  the  free  flights  of  the 
spirit.  The  highest  instincts  tend  to  disorganiza- 
tion as  much  as  the  lowest,  since  order  and  benefit 
is  what  practical  morality  everywhere  insists  upon. 


EXPRESSION  217 

while  sanctity  and  genius  are  as  rebellious  as  vice. 
The  constant  demands  of  the  heart  and  the  belly 
can  allow  man  only  an  incidental  indulgence  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  eye  and  the  understanding.  For 
this  reason,  utility  keeps  close  watch  over  beauty, 
lest  in  her  wilfulness  and  riot  she  should  offend 
against  our  practical  needs  and  ultimate  happiness. 
And  when  the  conscience  is  keen,  this  vigilance 
of  the  practical  imagination  over  the  speculative 
ceases  to  appear  as  an  eventual  and  external  check. 
The  least  suspicion  of  luxury,  waste,  impurity,  or 
cruelty  is  then  a  signal  for  alarm  and  insurrection. 
That  which  emits  this  sapor  hcereticus  becomes  so 
initially  horrible,  that  naturally  no  beauty  can 
ever  be  discovered  in  it ;  the  senses  and  imagination 
are  in  that  case  inhibited  by  the  conscience. 

For  this  reason,  the  doctrine  that  beauty  is  essen- 
tially nothing  but  the  expression  of  moral  or  prac- 
tical good  appeals  to  persons  of  predominant  moral 
sensitiveness,  not  only  because  they  wish  it  were 
the  truth,  but  because  it  largely  describes  the 
experience  of  their  own  minds,  somewhat  warped 
in  this  particular.  It  will  further  be  observed 
that  the  moralists  are  much  more  able  to  condemn 
than  to  appreciate  the  effects  of  the  arts.  Their 
taste  is  delicate  without  being  keen,  for  the  prin- 
ciple on  which  they  judge  is  one  which  really 
operates  to  control  and  extend  aesthetic  effects; 
it  is  a  source  of  expression  and  of  certain  nuances 
of  satisfaction;  but  it  is  foreign  to  the  stronger 
and  more  primitive  sesthetic  values  to  which  the 
same  persons  are  comparatively  blind. 


218  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

The  authority         §55.    Tiio  extent  to  wliicli  SBstlietic 

of  morals  over  ■,        ^        i  i  i  •  r>       i    •  p 

cesthtitics.  goods  slioukl  06  saci'iticed  IS,  01  course, 
a  moral  question;  for  the  function  of 
practical  reason  is  to  compare,  combine,  and  har- 
monize all  our  interests,  with  a  view  to  attaining 
the  greatest  satisfactions  of  v/hich  our  nature  is 
capable.  We  must  expect,  therefore,  that  virtue 
should  place  the  same  restraint  upon  all  our  pas- 
sions—  not  from  superstitious  aversion  to  any  one 
need,  but  from  an  equal  concern  for  them  all. 
The  consideration  to  be  given  to  our  aesthetic 
pleasures  will  depend  upon  their  greater  or  less 
influence  upon  our  happiness ;  and  as  this  influence 
varies  in  different  ages  and  countries,  and  with 
different  individuals,  it  will  be  right  to  let  aesthetic 
demands  count  for  more  or  for  less  in  the  organ- 
ization of  life. 

We  may,  indeed,  according  to  our  personal  sym- 
pathies, prefer  one  type  of  creature  to  another. 
We  may  love  the  martial,  or  the  angelic,  or  the 
political  temperament.  We  may  delight  to  find 
in  others  that  balance  of  susceptibilities  and 
enthusiasms  which  we  feel  in  our  own  breast. 
But  no  moral  precept  can  require  one  species  or 
individual  to  change  its  npoture  in  order  to  resem- 
ble another,  since  such  a  requirement  can  have  no 
povv'er  or  authority  over  those  on  whom  we  would 
impose  it.  All  that  morality  can  require  is  the 
inward  harmony  of  each  life :  and  if  we  still  abhor 
the  thought  of  a  possible  being  Avho  should  be 
liappy  without  love,  or  knowledge,  or  beauty,  the 
aversion  we  feel  is  not  moral  but  instinctive,  not 


EXPRESSION  219 

rational  but  luiman.  What  revolts  lis  is  not  the 
want  of  excellence  in  that  other  creature,  but  his 
want  of  affinity  to  ourselves.  Could  we  survey 
the  whole  universe,  we  might  indeed  assign  to 
each  species  a  moral  dignity  proportionate  to  its 
general  beneficence  and  inward  wealth;  but  such 
an  absolute  standard,  if  it  exists,  is  incommuni- 
cable to  us ;  and  we  are  reduced  to  judging  of  the 
excellence  of  every  nature  by  its  relation  to  the 
human. 

All  these  matters,  however,  belong  to  the  sphere 
of  ethics,  nor  should  we  give  them  here  even  a 
passing  notice,  but  for  the  influence  Avhich  moral 
ideas  exert  over  aesthetic  judgments.     Our  sense 
of  practical  benefit  not  only  determines  the  moral 
value  of  beauty,  but  sometimes  even  its  existence 
as  an  aesthetic  good.     Especially  in  the  right  selec- 
tion of  effects,  these  considerations  have  weight. 
Forms  in  themselves  pleasing  may  become  disa- 
greeable when  the  practical  interests  then  upper- 
most in  the  mind  cannot,  without  violence,  yield 
a  place  to  them.     Thus  too  much  eloquence  in  a 
diplomatic  document,  or  in  a  familiar  letter,  or  in 
a  prayer,  is  an  offence  not  only  against  practical 
sense,  but  also  against  taste.     The  occasion  has 
tuned  us  to  a  certain  key  of  sentiment,  and  de- 
prived us  of  the  power  to  respond  to  other  stimuli. 
If  things  of  moment  are  before  us,  we  cannot  stop 
to  play  with  symbols  and  figures  of  speech.     AVe 
cannot  attend  to  them  with  pleasure,  and  therefore 
they  lose  the  beauty  they  might  elsewhere  have 
had.     They  are   offensive,   not   in   themselves,  — 


220  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

for  nothing  is  intrinsically  ugly,  — but  by  vir- 
tue of  our  present  demand  for  something  dif- 
ferent. A  prison  as  gay  as  a  bazaar,  a  church 
as  dumb  as  a  prison,  oifend  by  their  failure  to  sup- 
port by  their  aesthetic  quality  the  moral  emotion 
with  which  we  approach  them.  The  arts  must 
study  their  occasions;  they  must  stand  modestly 
aside  until  they  can  slip  in  fitly  into  the  interstices 
of  life.  This  is  the  consequence  of  the  superficial 
stratum  on  which  they  flourish;  their  roots,  as  we 
have  seen,  are  not  deep  in  the  world,  and  they 
appear  only  as  unstable,  superadded  activities, 
employments  of  our  freedom,  after  the  work  of 
life  is  done  and  the  terror  of  it  is  allayed.  They 
must,  therefore,  fit  their  forms,  like  parasites,  to 
the  stouter  growths  to  which  they  cling. 

Herein  lies  the  greatest  difficulty  and  nicety  of 
art.  It  must  not  only  create  things  abstractly 
beautiful,  but  it  must  conciliate  all  the  competi- 
tors these  may  have  to  the  attention  of  the  world, 
and  must  know  how  to  insinuate  their  charms 
among  the  objects  of  our  passion.  But  this  sub- 
serviency and  enforced  humility  of  beauty  is  not 
without  its  virtue  and  reward.  If  the  sesthetic 
habit  lie  under  the  necessity  of  respecting  and  ob- 
serving our  passions,  it  possesses  the  privilege  of 
soothing  our  griefs.  There  is  no  situation  so  terri- 
ble that  it  may  not  be  relieved  by  the  momentary 
pause  of  the  mind  to  contemplate  it  aesthetically. 

Grief  itself  becomes  in  this  way  not  wholly 
pain;  a  sweetness  is  added  to  it  by  our  reflection. 
The  saddest  scenes   may  lose  their  bitterness  in 


EXPRESSION  221 

their  beauty.  This  ministration  makes,  as  it  were, 
the  piety  of  the  Muses,  who  succour  their  mother, 
Life,  and  repay  her  for  their  nurture  by  the  com- 
fort of  their  continual  presence.  The  aesthetic 
world  is  limited  in  its  scope;  it  must  submit  to 
the  control  of  the  organizing  reason,  and  not 
trespass  upon  more  useful  and  holy  ground.  The 
garden  must  not  encroach  upon  the  corn-fields; 
but  the  eye  of  the  gardener  may  transform  the 
corn-fields  themselves  by  dint  of  loving  observa- 
tion into  a  garden  of  a  soberer  kind.  By  finding 
grandeur  in  our  disasters,  and  merriment  in  our 
mishaps,  the  aesthetic  sense  thus  mollifies  both, 
and  consoles  us  for  the  frequent  impossibility  of 
a  serious  and  perfect  beauty. 

§  56.    All   subjects,    even    the   most  Negatiue 

,,,,,-,.  ,  p    values  in  the 

repellent,  when  the  circumstances  oi  second  tefm. 
life  thrust  them  before  us,  can  thus  be 
observed  with  curiosity  and  treated  with  art.  The 
calling  forth  of  these  aesthetic  functions  softens  the 
violence  of  our  sympathetic  reaction.  If  death,  for 
instance,  did  not  exist  and  did  not  thrust  itself 
upon  our  thoughts  with  painful  importunity,  art 
would  never  have  been  called  upon  to  soften  and 
dignify  it,  by  presenting  it  in  beautiful  forms  and 
surrounding  it  with  consoling  associations.  Art 
does  not  seek  out  the  pathetic,  the  tragic,  and  the 
absurd;  it  is  life  that  has  imposed  them  upon  our 
attention,  and  enlisted  art  in  their  service,  to  make 
the  contemplation  of  them,  since  it  is  inevitable, 
at  least  as  tolerable  as  possible. 


222  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

The  agreeableness  of  the  presentation  is  thus 
mixed  with  the  horror  of  the  thing;  and  the  result 
is  that  while  we  are  saddened  by  the  truth  we  are 
delighted  by  the  vehicle  that  conveys  it  to  us. 
The  mixture  of  these  emotions  constitutes  the 
peculiar  flavour  and  poignancy  of  pathos.  But 
because  unlovely  objects  and  feelings  are  often  so 
familiar  as  to  be  indifferent  or  so  momentous  as  to 
be  alone  in  the  mind,  we  are  led  into  the  confu- 
sion of  supposing  that  beauty  depends  upon  them 
for  its  aesthetic  value;  whereas  the  truth  is  that 
only  by  the  addition  of  positive  beauties  can  these 
evil  experiences  be  made  agreeable  to  contempla- 
tion. 

There  is,  in  reality,  no  such  paradox  in  the 
tragic,  comic,  and  sublime,  as  has  been  sometimes 
supposed.  We  are  not  pleased  by  virtue  of  the 
suggested  evils,  but  in  spite  of  them;  and  if  ever 
the  charm  of  the  beautiful  presentation  sinks  so 
low,  or  the  vividness  of  the  represented  evil  rises 
so  high,  that  the  balance  is  in  favour  of  pain,  at 
that  very  moment  the  whole  object  becomes  hor- 
rible, passes  out  of  the  domain  of  art,  and  can  be 
justified  only  by  its  scientific  or  moral  uses.  As 
an  aesthetic  value  it  is  destroyed;  it  ceases  to  be  a 
benefit;  and  the  author  of  it,  if  he  were  not  made 
harmless  by  the  neglect  that  must  soon  overtake 
him,  would  have  to  be  punished  as  a  malefactor 
who  adds  to  the  burden  of  mortal  life.  For  the 
sad,  the  ridiculous,  the  grotesque,  and  the  terrible, 
unless  they  become  aesthetic  goods,  remain  moral 
evils. 


EXPRESSION  223 

We  have,  therefore,  to  study  the  various  eesthetic, 
intellectual,  and  moral  compensations  by  which  tlie 
mind  can  be  brought  to  contemplate  with  pleasure 
a  thing  which,  if  experienced  alone,  would  be  the 
cause  of  pain.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  way  of 
avoiding  this  inquiry.  We  might  assert  that  since 
all  moderate  excitement  is  pleasant,  there  is  noth- 
ing strange  in  the  fact  that  the  representation  of 
evil  should  please;  for  the  experience  is  evil  by  vir- 
tue of  the  pain  it  gives;  but  it  gives  pain  only  when 
felt  with  great  intensity.  Observed  from  afar,  it  is 
a  pleasing  impression;  it  is  vivid  enough  to  interest, 
but  not  acute  enough  to  wound.  This  simple  expla- 
nation is  possible  in  all  those  cases  where  aesthetic 
effect  is  gained  by  the  inhibition  of  sympathy. 

The  term  "evil"  is  often  a  conventional  epithet; 
a  conflagration  may  be  called  an  evil,  because  it 
usually  involves  loss  and  suffering;  but  if,  without 
caring  for  a  loss  and  suffering  we  do  not  share,  we 
are  delighted  by  the  blaze,  and  still  say  that  what 
pleases  us  is  an  evil,  we  are  using  this  word  as  a 
conventional  appellation,  not  as  the  mark  of  a  felt 
value.  We  are  not  pleased  by  an  evil;  we  are 
pleased  by  a  vivid  and  exciting  sensation,  which  is 
a  good,  but  which  has  for  objective  cause  an  event 
which  may  indeed  be  an  evil  to  others,  but  about 
the  consequences  of  which  we  are  not  thinking  at 
all.  There  is,  in  this  sense,  nothing  in  all  nature, 
perhaps,  which  is  not  an  evil;  nothing  which  is  not 
unfavourable  to  some  interest,  and  does  not  involve 
some  infinitesimal  or  ultimate  suffering  in  the  uni- 
verse of  life. 


224  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

But  when  we  are  ignorant  or  thoughtlesSj  this 
suffering  is  to  us  as  if  it  did  not  exist.  The  pleas- 
ures of  drinking  and  walking  are  not  tragic  to  us, 
because  we  may  be  poisoning  some  bacillus  or  crush- 
ing some  worm.  To  an  ominiscient  intelligence 
such  acts  may  be  tragic  by  virtue  of  the  insight 
into  their  relations  to  conflicting  impulses;  but 
unless  these  impulses  are  present  to  the  same 
mind,  there  is  no  consciousness  of  tragedy.  The 
child  that,  without  understanding  of  the  calamity, 
should  watch  a  shipwreck  from  the  shore,  would 
have  a  simple  emotion  of  pleasure  as  from  a 
jumping  jack;  what  passes  for  tragic  interest  is 
often  nothing  but  this.  If  he  understood  the 
event,  but  was  entirely  without  sympathy,  he 
would  have  the  aesthetic  emotion  of  the  careless 
tyrant,  to  whom  the  notion  of  suffering  is  no  hin- 
drance to  the  enjoyment  of  the  lyre.  If  the  temper 
of  his  tyranny  were  purposely  cruel,  he  might  add 
to  that  aesthetic  delight  the  luxury  of  Schaden- 
freude; but  the  pathos  and  horror  of  the  sight 
could  only  appeal  to  a  man  who  realized  and 
shared  the  sufferings  he  beheld. 

A  great  deal  of  brutal  tragedy  has  been  endured 
in  the  world  because  the  rudeness  of  the  represen- 
tation, or  of  the  public,  or  of  both,  did  not  allow  a 
really  sympathetic  reaction  to  arise.  We  all  smile 
when  Punch  beats  Judy  in  the  puppet  show.  The 
treatment  and  not  the  subject  is  what  makes  a  trag- 
edy. A  parody  of  Hamlet  or  of  Kbig  Lear  would 
not  be  a  tragedy;  and  these  tragedies  themselves 
are  not  wholly  such,  but  by  the  strain  of  wit  and 


EXPRESSION  225 

nonsense  they  contain  are,  as  it  were,  occasional 
parodies  on  themselves.  By  treating  a  tragic  sub- 
ject bombastically  or  satirically  we  can  turn  it  into 
an  amusement  for  the  public ;  they  will  not  feel  the 
griefs  which  we  have  been  careful  to  harden  them 
against  by  arousing  in  them  contrary  emotions.  A 
work,  nominally  a  work  of  art,  may  also  appeal  to 
non-8esthetic  feelings  by  its  political  bias,  brutality, 
or  obscenity.  But  if  an  effect  of  true  pathos  is 
sought,  the  sympathy  of  the  observer  must  be 
aroused ;  we  must  awaken  in  him  the  eoiotion  we 
describe.  The  intensity  of  the  impression  must 
not  be  so  slight  that  its  painful  quality  is  not  felt; 
for  it  is  this  very  sense  of  pain,  mingling  with  the 
aesthetic  excitement  of  the  spectacle,  that  gives  it 
a  tragic  or  pathetic  colouring. 

We  cannot  therefore  rest  in  the  assertion  that 
the  slighter  degree  of  excitement  is  pleasant,  when 
a  greater  degree  of  the  same  would  be  disagreeable ; 
for  that  principle  does  not  express  the  essence  of 
the  matter,  which  is  that  we  must  be  aware  of  the 
evil,  and  conscious  of  it  as  such,  absorbed  more  or 
less  in  the  experience  of  the  sufferer,  and  conse- 
quently suffering  ourselves,  before  we  can  experi- 
ence the  essence  of  tragic  emotion.  This  emotion 
must  therefore  be  complex;  it  must  contain  an 
element  of  pain  overbalanced  by  an  element  of 
pleasure;  in  our  delight  there  must  be  a  distin- 
guishable touch  of  shrinking  and  sorrow;  for  it  is 
this  conflict  and  rending  of  our  will,  this  fascina- 
tion by  what  is  intrinsically  terrible  or  sad,  that 
gives  these  turbid  feelings  their  depth  and  pungency. 

Q 


226  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

Influence  of  §  57.    A  Striking  proof  of   the  com- 

^Tthe^pilZZg  pound  nature  of  tragic  effects  can  be 
expression  of  given  by  a  simple  experiment.  Eemove 
from  any  drama  —  say  from  Othello  — 
the  charm  of  the  medium  of  presentation;  re- 
duce the  tragedy  to  a  mere  account  of  the  facts  and 
of  the  words  spoken,  such  as  our  newspapers  almost 
daily  contain;  and  the  tragic  dignity  and  beauty 
is  entirely  lost.  Xothing  remains  but  a  disheart- 
ening item  of  human  folly,  which  may  still  excite 
curiosity,  but  which  will  rather  defile  than  purify 
the  mind  that  considers  it.     A  Erench  poet  has 

said : 

II  n'est  de  vulgaire  chagrin 

Que  celui  d'une  aiue  vulgaire. 

The  counterpart  of  this  maxim  is  equally  true. 
There  is  no  noble  sorrow  except  in  a  noble  mind, 
because  what  is  noble  is  the  reaction  upon  the 
sorrow,  the  attitude  of  the  man  in  its  presence, 
the  language  in  which  he  clothes  it,  the  associa- 
tions with  which  he  surrounds  it,  and  the  fine 
affections  and  impulses  which  shine  through  it. 
Only  by  suffusing  some  sinister  experience  Avith 
this  moral  light,  as  a  poet  may  do  who  carries 
that  light  within  him,  can  we  raise  misfortune 
into  tragedy  and  make  it  better  for  us  to  remem- 
ber our  lives  tlian  to  forget  them. 

There  are  times,  although  rare,  when  men  are 
noble  in  the  very  moment  of  passion:  when  that 
passion  is  not  unqualified,  but  already  mastered  by 
reficction  and  levelled  with  truth.  Then  the  ex- 
perience is  itself  the  tragedy,  and  no  poet  is  needed 


EXPRESSION  227 

to  make  it  beautiful  in  representation,  since  the 
sufferer  has  been  an  artist  himself,  and  has  moulded 
what  he  has  endured.  But  usually  these  two 
stages  have  to  be  successive :  first  we  suffer,  after- 
wards we  sing.  An  interval  is  necessary  to  make 
feeling  presentable,  and  subjugate  it  to  that  form 
in  which  alone  it  is  beautiful. 

This  form  appeals  to  us  in  itself,  and  without 
its  aid  no  subject-matter  could  become  an  aesthetic 
object.  The  more  terrible  the  experience  de- 
scribed, the  more  powerful  must  the  art  be  which 
is  to  transform  it.  For  this  reason  prose  and 
literalness  are  more  tolerable  in  comedy  than  in 
tragedy;  any  violent  passion,  any  overwhelming 
pain,  if  it  is  not  to  make  us  think  of  a  demonstra- 
tion in  pathology,  and  bring  back  the  smell  of 
ether,  must  be  rendered  in  the  most  exalted  style. 
Metre,  rhyme,  melody,  the  widest  flights  of  allu- 
sioD,  the  highest  reaches  of  fancy,  are  there  in 
place.  For  these  enable  the  mind  swept  by  the 
deepest  cosmic  harmonies,  to  endure  and  absorb 
the  shrill  notes  which  would  be  intolerable  in  a 
poorer  setting. 

The  sensuous  harmony  of  words,  and  still  more 
the  effects  of  rhj^thm,  are  indispensable  at  this 
height  of  emotion.  Evolutionists  have  said  that 
violent  emotion  naturally  expresses  itself  in 
rhythm.  That  is  hardly  an  empirical  observa- 
tion, nor  can  the  expressiveness  of  rhythms  be 
made  definite  enough  to  bear  specific  association 
with  complex  feelings.  But  the  suspension  and 
rush  of  sound  and  movement  have  in  themselves 


228  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

a  strong  effect;  we  cannot  undergo  tliem  without 
profound  excitement ;  and  this,  like  martial  music, 
nerves  us  to  courage  and,  by  a  sort  of  intoxication, 
bears  us  along  amid  scenes  which  might  otherwise 
be  sickening.  The  vile  effect  of  literal  and  dis- 
jointed renderings  of  suffering,  whether  in  writing 
or  acting,  proves  how  necessary  is  the  musical 
quality  to  tragedy  —  a  fact  Aristotle  long  ago  set 
forth.  The  afSatus  of  rhythm,  even  if  it  be  the 
pomp  of  the  Alexandrine,  sublimates  the  passion, 
and  clarifies  its  mutterings  into  poetry.  This 
breadth  and  rationality  are  necessary  to  art,  which 
is  not  skill  merely,  but  skill  in  the  service  of 
beauty. 

Mixtufe  of  §  58.    To  the  value  of  these  sensuous 

lioZ.7i!l7u7-  ^^^  formal  elements  must  be  added  the 
ingthatof  continual  suojprestion  of  beautiful  and 
happy  things,  which  no  tragedy  is  som- 
bre enough  to  exclude.  Even  if  we  do  not  go  so 
far  as  to  intersperse  comic  scenes  and  phrases  into 
a  pathetic  subject,  — a  rude  device,  since  the  comic 
passages  themselves  need  that  purifying  which 
they  are  meant  to  effect,  —  we  must  at  least  relieve 
our  theme  with  pleasing  associations.  For  this 
reason  we  have  palaces  for  our  scene,  rank,  beauty, 
and  virtue  in  our  heroes,  nobility  in  their  passions 
and  in  their  fate,  and  altogether  a  sort  of  glorifica- 
tion of  life  without  which  tragedy  would  lose  both 
in  depth  of  pathos  —  since  things  so  precious  are 
destroyed  —  and  in  subtlety  of  charm,  since  things 
so  precious  are  manifested. 


EXPRESSION  229 

Indeed,  one  of  the  chief  charms  that  tragedies 
have  is  the  suggestion  of  what  they  might  have 
been  if  they  had  not  been  tragedies.  The  happi- 
ness which  glimmers  through  them,  the  hopes, 
loves,  and  ambitions  of  which  it  is  made,  these 
things  fascinate  us,  and  win  our  sympathy;  so 
that  we  are  all  the  more  willing  to  suffer  with  our 
heroes,  even  if  we  are  at  the  same  time  all  the 
more  sensitive  to  their  suffering.  Too  wicked  a 
character  or  too  unrelieved  a  situation  revolts  us 
for  this  reason.  We  do  not  find  enough  expression 
of  good  to  make  us  endure  the  expression  of  the 
evil. 

A  curious  exception  to  this  rule,  which,  however, 
admirably  illustrates  the  fundamental  principle  of 
it,  is  where  by  the  diversity  of  evils  represented 
the  mind  is  relieved  from  painful  absorption  in  any 
of  them.  There  is  a  scene  in  King  Lear,  where  the 
horror  of  the  storm  is  made  to  brood  over  at  least 
four  miseries,  that  of  the  king,  of  the  fool,  of  Edgar 
in  his  real  person,  and  of  Edgar  in  his  assumed 
character.  The  vividness  of  each  of  these  por- 
trayals, with  its  different  note  of  pathos,  keeps 
the  mind  detached  and  free,  forces  it  to  compare 
and  reflect,  and  thereby  to  universalize  the  spec- 
tacle. Yet  even  here,  the  beautiful  effect  is  not 
secured  without  some  touches  of  good.  How  much 
is  not  gained  by  the  dumb  fidelity  of  the  fool,  and 
by  the  sublime  humanity  of  Lear,  when  he  says, 
"Art  cold?  There  is  a  part  of  me  is  sorry  for 
thee  yet." 

Yet  all  these  compensations  would  probably  be 


230  TITE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

unavailing  but  for  another  wliicli  the  saddest  things 
often  have,  —  the  compensation  of  being  true.  Our 
practical  and  intellectual  nature  is  deeply  inter- 
ested in  truth.  What  describes  fact  appeals  to  us 
for  that  reason;  it  has  an  inalienable  interest. 
However  unpleasant  truth  may  prove,  we  long  to 
know  it,  partly  perhaps  because  experience  has 
shown  us  the  prudence  of  this  kind  of  intellectual 
courage,  and  chiefly  because  the  consciousness  of 
isfnorance  and  the  dread  of  the  unknown  is  more 
tormenting  than  any  possible  discovery.  A  primi- 
tive instinct  makes  us  turn  the  eyes  full  on  any 
object  that  appears  in  the  dim  borderland  of  our 
field  of  vision  —  and  this  all  the  more  quickly,  the 
more  terrible  that  object  threatens  to  be. 

This  physical  thirst  for  seeing  has  its  intellectual 
extension.  We  covet  trutli,  and  to  attain  it,  amid 
all  accidents,  is  a  supreme  satisfaction.  Now  this 
satisfaction  the  representation  of  evil  can  also 
afford.  Whether  we  hear  the  account  of  some 
personal  accident,  or  listen  to  the  symbolic  repre- 
sentation of  the  inherent  tragedy  of  life,  we  crave 
the  same  knowledge;  the  desire  for  truth  makes 
us  welcome  eagerly  whatever  comes  in  its  name. 
To  be  sure,  the  relief  of  such  instruction  does  not 
of  itself  constitute  an  sesthetic  pleasure :  the  other 
conditions  of  beauty  remain  to  be  fulfilled.  But 
the  satisfaction  of  so  imperious  an  intellectual 
instinct  insures  our  willing  attention  to  the  tragic 
object,  and  strengthens  the  hold  which  any  beauties 
it  may  possess  will  take  upon  us.  An  intellectual 
value  stands  ready  to  be  transmuted  into  an  ses- 


EXPRESSION  231 

thetic  one,  if  once  its  discursiveness  is  lost,  and  it 
is  left  hanging  about  tlie  object  as  a  vague  sense 
of  dignity  and  meaning. 

To  this  must  be  added  the  specific  pleasure  of 
recognition,  one  of  the  keenest  we  have,  and  the 
sentimental  one  of  nursing  our  own  griefs  and 
dignifying  them  by  assimilation  to  a  less  inglo- 
rious representation  of  them.  Here  we  have  truth 
on  a  small  scale;  conformity  in  the  fiction  to 
incidents  of  our  personal  experience.  Such  cor- 
respondences are  the  basis  of  much  popular  ap- 
preciation of  trivial  and  undigested  works  that 
appeal  to  some  momentary  phase  of  life  or  feel- 
ing, and  disappear  with  it.  They  have  the  value 
of  personal  stimulants  only;  they  never  achieve 
beaut}^  Like  the  souvenirs  of  last  season's  gaye- 
ties,  or  the  diary  of  an  early  love,  they  are  often 
hideous  in  themselves  in  proportion  as  they  are 
redolent  with  personal  associations.  But  however 
hopelessly  mere  history  or  confession  may  fail  to 
constitute  a  work  of  art,  a  work  of  art  that  has  an 
historical  warrant,  either  literal  or  symbolical, 
gains  the  support  of  that  vivid  interest  we  have  in 
facts.  And  many  tragedies  and  farces,  that  to  a 
mind  without  experience  of  this  sublunary  world 
might  seem  monstrous  and  disgusting  fictions,  may 
come  to  be  forgiven  and  even  perhaps  preferred 
over  all  else,  when  they  are  found  to  be  a  sketch 
from  life. 

Truth  is  thus  the  excuse  which  ugliness  has 
for  being.  Many  i)eople,  in  whom  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge   and   the   indulgence   in    sentiment 


232  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

have  left  no  room  for  the  cultivation  of  the  aes- 
thetic sense,  look  in  art  rather  for  this  expres- 
sion of  fact  or  of  passion  than  for  the  revelation 
of  beauty.  They  accordingly  produce  and  admire 
works  without  intrinsic  value.  They  employ  the 
procedure  of  the  fine  arts  without  an  eye  to  what 
can  give  pleasure  in  the  effect.  They  invoke  rather 
the  a  priori  interest  which  men  are  expected  to 
have  in  the  subject-matter,  or  in  the  theories  and 
moral  implied  in  the  presentation  of  it.  Instead 
of  using  the  allurements  of  art  to  inspire  wisdom, 
they  require  an  appreciation  of  wisdom  to  make  us 
endure  their  lack  of  art. 

Of  course,  the  instruments  of  the  arts  are 
public  property  and  any  one  is  free  to  turn  them 
to  new  uses.  It  would  be  an  interesting  devel- 
opment of  civilization  if  they  should  now  be 
employed  only  as  methods  of  recording  scientific 
ideas  and  personal  confessions.  But  the  experi- 
ment has  not  succeeded  and  can  hardly  succeed. 
There  are  other  simpler,  clearer,  and  more  satis- 
fying ways  of  expounding  truth.  A  man  who 
is  really  a  student  of  history  or  philosophy  will 
never  rest  with  the  vague  and  partial  oracles  of 
poetry,  not  to  speak  of  the  inarticulate  sugges- 
tions of  the  plastic  arts.  He  will  at  once  make 
for  the  principles  which  art  cannot  express, 
even  if  it  can  embody  them,  and  when  those  prin- 
ciples are  attained,  the  works  of  art,  if  the}^  had 
no  other  value  than  that  of  suggesting  them,  will 
lapse  from  his  mind.  Forms  will  give  place  to 
formulas  as  hieroglyphics  have  given  place  to  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet. 


EXPRESSION  233 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  primary  interest  is 
really  in  beauty,  and  only  the  confusion  of  a 
moral  revolution  has  obscured  for  a  while  the 
vision  of  the  ideal,  then  as  the  mind  regains 
its  mastery  over  the  world,  and  digests  its  new 
experience,  the  imagination  will  again  be  liber- 
ated, and  create  its  forms  by  its  inward  affini- 
ties, leaving  all  the  weary  burden,  archaeological, 
psychological,  and  ethical,  to  those  whose  busi- 
ness is  not  to  delight.  But  the  sudden  inunda- 
tion of  science  and  sentiment  which  has  made 
the  mind  of  the  nineteenth  century  so  confused, 
by  overloading  us  with  materials  and  breaking 
up  our  habits  of  apperception  and  our  ideals, 
has  led  to  an  exclusive  sense  of  the  value  of 
expressiveness,  until  this  has  been  almost  iden- 
tified with  beauty.  This  exaggeration  can  best 
prove  how  the  expression  of  truth  may  enter  into 
the  play  of  aesthetic  forces,  and  give  a  value  to 
representations  which,  but  for  it,  would  be  re- 
pulsive. 

§  59.  Hitherto  we  have  been  consid-  The  nbemthn 
ering  those  elements  of  a  pathetic  pres- 
entation which  may  mitigate  our  sympathetic 
emotion,  and  make  it  on  the  whole  agreeable. 
These  consist  in  the  intrinsic  beauties  of  the 
medium  of  presentation,  and  in  the  concomitant 
manifestation  of  various  goods,  notably  of  truth. 
The  mixture  of  these  values  is  perhaps  all  we  have 
in  mildly  pathetic  works,  in  the  presence  of  which 
we  are  tolerably  aware  of  a  sort  of  balance  and 


234  THE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

compensation  of  emotions.  The  sorrow  and  the 
beauty,  the  hopelessness  and  the  consolation,  min- 
gle and  merge  into  a  kind  of  joy  which  has  its 
poignancy,  indeed,  but  which  is  far  too  passive 
and  penitential  to  contain  the  louder  and  sublimer 
of  our  tragic  moods.  In  these  there  is  a  whole- 
ness, a  strength,  and  a  rapture,  which  still  demands 
an  explanation. 

"Where  this  explanation  is  to  be  found  may 
be  guessed  from  the  following  circumstance.  The 
pathetic  is  a  quality  of  the  object,  at  once  lov- 
able and  sad,  which  we  accept  and  allow  to  flow 
in  upon  the  soul;  but  the  heroic  is  an  attitude 
of  the  will,  by  which  the  voices  of  the  outer 
world  are  silenced,  and  a  moral  energy,  flowing 
from  within,  is  made  to  triumph  over  them.  If 
we  fail,  therefore,  to  discover,  by  analysis  of  the 
object,  anything  which  could  make  it  sublime,  we 
must  not  be  surprised  at  our  failure.  We  must  re- 
member that  the  object  is  always  but  a  portion  of 
our  consciousness :  that  portion  which  has  enough 
coherence  and  articulation  to  be  recognized  as  per- 
manent and  projected  into  the  outer  world.  But 
consciousness  remains  one,  in  spite  of  this  diversi- 
fication of  its  content,  and  the  object  is  not  really 
independent,  but  is  in  constant  relation  to  the  rest 
of  the  mind,  in  the  midst  of  which  it  swims  like  a 
bubble  on  a  dark  surface  of  water. 

The  aesthetic  effect  of  objects  is  always  due  to  the 
total  emotional  value  of  the  consciousness  in  which 
they  exist.  We  merely  attribute  this  value  to  the 
object  by  a  projection  which  is  the  ground  of  the 


EXPRESSION  235 

apparent  objectivity  of  beauty.  Sometimes  this 
value  may  be  inherent  in  the  process  by  which  the 
object  itself  is  perceived;  then  we  have  sensuous 
and  formal  beauty;  sometimes  the  value  may 
be  due  to  the  incipient  formation  of  other  ideas, 
which  the  perception  of  this  object  evokes ;  then  we 
have  beauty  of  expression.  But  among  the  ideas 
with  which  every  object  has  relation  there  is  one 
vaguest,  most  comprehensive,  and  most  powerful 
one,  namely,  the  idea  of  self.  The  impulses,  mem- 
ories, principles,  and  energies  which  we  designate 
by  that  word  baSie  enumeration ;  indeed,  they  con- 
stantly fade  and  change  into  one  another;  and 
whether  the  self  is  anything,  everything,  or  noth- 
ing depends  on  the  aspect  of  it  which  we  momen- 
tarily fix,  and  especially  on  the  definite  object  with 
which  we  contrast  it. 

Now,  it  is  the  essential  privilege  of  beauty  to  so 
synthesize  and  bring  to  a  focus  the  various  impulses 
of  the  self,  so  to  suspend  them  to  a  single  image, 
that  a  great  peace  falls  upon  that  perturbed  king- 
dom. In  the  experience  of  these  momentary  har- 
monies we  have  the  basis  of  the  enjoyment  of  beauty, 
and  of  all  its  mystical  meanings.  But  there  are 
always  two  methods  of  securing  harmony:  one  is 
to  unify  all  the  given  elements,  and  another  is  to 
reject  and  expunge  all  the  elements  tliat  refuse  to 
be  unified.  Unity  by  inclusion  gives  us  the  beau- 
tiful; unity  by  exclusion,  opposition,  and  isolation 
gives  us  the  sublime.  Both  are  pleasures :  but  the 
pleasure  of  the  one  is  warm,  passive,  and  pervasive; 
that  of  the  other  cold,  imperious,  and  keen.     The 


236  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

one  identifies  us  with  the  world,  the  other  raises 
us  above  it. 

There  can  be  no  difficulty  in  understanding  how 
the  expression  of  evil  in  the  object  may  be  the 
occasion  of  this  heroic  reaction  of  the  soul.  In  the 
first  place,  the  evil  may  be  felt;  but  at  the  same 
time  the  sense  that,  great  as  it  may  be  in  itself, 
it  cannot  touch  us,  may  stimulate  extraordinarily 
the  consciousness  of  our  own  wholeness.  This  is 
the  sublimity  which  Lucretius  calls  "  sweet "  in  the 
famous  lines  in  which  he  so  justly  analyzes  it. 
We  are  not  pleased  because  another  suffers  an  evil, 
but  because,  seeing  it  is  an  evil,  we  see  at  the  same 
time  our  own  immunity  from  it.  We  might  soften 
the  picture  a  little,  and  perhaps  make  the  principle 
even  clearer  by  so  doing.  The  shipwreck  observed 
from  the  shore  does  not  leave  us  wholly  unmoved; 
w^e  suffer,  also,  and  if  possible,  would  help.  So, 
too,  the  spectacle  of  the  erring  world  must  sadden 
the  philosopher  even  in  the  Acropolis  of  his  wis- 
dom; he  would,  if  it  might  be,  descend  from  his 
meditation  and  teach.  But  thos3  movements  of 
sympathy  are  quickly  inhibited  by  despair  of  suc- 
cess; impossibility  of  action  is  a  great  condition 
of  the  sublime.  If  we  could  count  the  stars,  we 
should  not  weep  before  them.  While  we  think  we 
can  change  the  drama  of  history,  and  of  our  own 
lives,  we  are  not  awed  by  our  destiny.  But  when 
the  evil  is  irreparable,  when  our  life  is  lived,  a 
strong  spirit  has  the  sublime  resource  of  standing 
at  bay  and  of  surveying  almost  from  the  other 
world  the  vicissitudes  of  this. 


EXPRESSION  237 

The  more  intimate  to  himself  the  tragedy  he  is 
able  to  look  back  upon  with  calmness,  the  more 
sublime  that  calmness  is,  and  the  more  divine  the 
ecstasy  in  which  he  achieves  it.  For  the  more  of 
the  accidental  vesture  of  life  we  are  able  to  strip 
ourselves  of,  the  more  naked  and  simple  is  the 
surviving  spirit;  the  more  complete  its  superiority 
and  unity,  and,  consequently,  the  more  unqualified 
its  joy.  There  remains  little  in  us,  then,  but  that 
intellectual  essence,  which  several  great  philosophers 
have  called  eternal  and  identified  with  the  Divinity. 

A  single  illustration  may  help  to  fix  these  prin- 
ciples in  the  mind.  When  Othello  has  discovered 
his  fatal  error,  and  is  resolved  to  take  his  own 
life,  he  stops  his  groaning,  and  addresses  the 
amba-ssadors  of  Venice  thus: 

Speak  of  me  as  I  am  :  nothing  extenuate, 

Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice  :  then,  must  you  speak 

Of  one  that  loved,  not  wisely,  but  too  well ; 

Of  one  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought, 

Perplexed  in  the  extreme  ;  of  one  whose  hand, 

Like  the  base  Indian,  threw  a  pearl  away 

Richer  than  all  his  tribe  ;  of  one  whose  subdued  eyes, 

Albeit  unused  to  the  melting  mood. 

Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 

Their  medicinal  gum.     Set  you  down  this  ; 

And  say,  besides,  that  in  Aleppo  once 

When  a  malignant  and  a  turbaned  Turk 

Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduced  the  state, 

I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 

And  smote  him,  thus. 

There  is  a  kind  of  criticism  that  would  see  in 
all  these  allusions,  figures  of  speech,  and  wander- 


238  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ing  reflections,  an  unnatural  rendering  of  suicide. 
The  man,  we  might  be  told,  should  have  muttered 
a  few  broken  phrases,  and  killed  himself  without 
this  pomp  of  declamation,  like  the  jealous  hus- 
bands in  the  daily  papers.  But  the  conventions 
of  the  tragic  stage  are  more  favourable  to  psycho- 
logical truth  than  the  conventions  of  real  life.  If 
we  may  trust  the  imagination  (and  in  imagination 
lies,  as  we  have  seen,  the  test  of  propriety),  this 
is  what  Othello  would  have  felt.  If  he  had  not 
expressed  ifc,  his  dumbness  would  have  been  due  to 
external  hindrances,  not  to  the  failure  in  his  mind 
of  just  such  complex  and  rhetorical  thoughts  as 
the  poet  has  put  into  his  mouth.  The  height  of 
passion  is  naturally  complex  and  rhetorical.  Love 
makes  us  poets,  and  the  approach  of  death  should 
make  us  philosophers.  When  a  man  knows  that 
his  life  is  over,  he  can  look  back  upon  it  from  a 
universal  standpoint.  He  has  nothing  more  to 
live  for,  but  if  the  energy  of  his  mind  remains 
unimpaired,  he  will  still  wish  to  live,  and,  being 
cut  off  from  his  personal  ambitions,  he  will  impute 
to  himself  a  kind  of  vicarious  immortality  by 
identifying  himself  with  what  is  eternal.  He 
speaks  of  himself  as  he  is,  or  rather  as  he  was. 
He  sums  himself  up,  and  points  to  his  achieve- 
ment. This  I  have  been,  says  he,  this  I  have 
done. 

This  comprehensive  and  impartial  view,  this 
synthesis  and  objectification  of  experience,  consti- 
tutes the  liberation  of  the  soul  and  the  essence  of 
sublimity.     That  the  hero  attains   it  at  the  end 


EXPRESSION  239 

consoles  us,  as  it  consoles  liim,  for  his  hideous 
misfortunes.  Our  pity  and  terror  are  indeed 
purged;  we  go  away  knowing  that,  however  tangled 
the  net  may  be  in  which  we  feel  ourselves  caught, 
there  is  liberation  beyond,  and  an  ultimate  peace. 

§  60.    So  natural  is  the  relation  be-  ^''«  sublime 

.  .  independent 

tween  tJie  vivid  conception  of  great  evils,  of  the  expres- 
and  that  self-assertion  of  the  soul  which  '''"  ^f'"'"- 
gives  the  emotion  of  the  sublime,  that  the  sublime 
is  often  thought  to  depend  upon  the  terror  which 
these  conceived  evils  inspire.  To  be  sure,  that 
terror  would  have  to  be  inhibited  and  subdued, 
otherwise  we  should  have  a  passion  too  acute  to  be 
incorporated  in  any  object;  the  sublime  would  not 
appear  as  an  sesthetic  quality  in  things,  but  remain 
merely  an  emotional  state  in  the  subject.  But  this 
subdued  and  objectified  terror  is  what  is  commonly 
regarded  as  the  essence  of  the  sublime,  and  so  great 
an  authority  as  Aristotle  would  seem  to  counte- 
nance some  such  definition.  The  usual  cause  of  the 
sublime  is  here  confused,  however,  with  the  sub- 
lime itself.  The  suggestion  of  terror  makes  us 
withdraw  into  ourselves :  there  with  the  superven- 
ing consciousness  of  safety  or  indifference  comes  a 
rebound,  and  we  have  that  emotion  of  detachment 
and  liberation  in  which  the  sublime  really  consists. 
Thoughts  and  actions  are  properly  sublime,  and 
visible  things  only  by  analogy  and  suggestion  when 
they  induce  a  certain  moral  emotion;  whereas 
beauty  belongs  properly  to  sensible  things,  and 
can  be  predicated  of  moral  facts  only  by  a  figure 


240  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

of  rhetoric.  What  we  objectify  in  beauty  is  a 
sensation.  What  we  objectify  in  the  sublime  is  an 
act.  This  act  is  necessarily  pleasant,  for  if  it 
were  not  the  sublime  would  be  a  bad  quality  and 
one  we  should  rather  never  encounter  in  the  world. 
The  glorious  joy  of  self-assertion  in  the  face  of  an 
uncontrollable  world  is  indeed  so  deep  and  entire, 
that  it  furnishes  just  that  transcendent  element  of 
worth  for  which  we  were  looking  when  we  tried  to 
understand  how  the  expression  of  pain  could  some- 
times please.  It  can  please,  not  in  itself,  but 
because  it  is  balanced  and  annulled  by  positive 
pleasures,  especially  by  this  final  and  victorious 
one  of  detachment.  If  the  expression  of  evil 
seems  necessary  to  the  sublime,  it  is  so  only  as  a 
condition  of  this  moral  reaction. 

We  are  commonly  too  much  engrossed  in  objects 
and  too  little  centred  in  ourselves  and  our  inalien- 
able will,  to  see  the  sublimity  of  a  pleasing  prospect. 
We  are  then  enticed  and  flattered,  and  won  over  to 
a  commerce  with  these  external  goods,  and  the  con- 
summation of  our  happiness  would  lie  in  the  per- 
fect comprehension  and  enjoyment  of  their  nature. 
This  is  the  office  of  art  and  of  love;  and  its  partial 
fulfilment  is  seen  in  every  perception  of  beauty. 
But  when  we  are  checked  in  this  sympathetic 
endeavour  after  unity  and  comprehension;  when 
we  come  upon  a  great  evil  or  an  irreconcilable 
power,  we  are  driven  to  seek  our  happiness  by  the 
shorter  and  heroic  road;  then  we  recognize  the 
hopeless  foreignness  of  what  lies  before  us,  and 
stiffen  ourselves  against  it.     We  thus  for  the  first 


EXPEESSION 


241 


time  reach  the  sense  of  our  possible  separation 
from  our  world,  and  of  our  abstract  stability;  and 
with  this  comes  the  sublime. 

But  although  experience  of  evil  is  the  common- 
est approach  to  this  attitude  of  mind,  and  we  com- 
monly become  philosophers  only  after  despairing 
of    instinctive   happiness,    yet    there    is    nothing 
impossible   in   the   attainment  of   detachment  by 
other  channels.     The  immense  is  sublime  as  well 
as  the  terrible;  and  mere   infinity  of  the  object, 
like  its  hostile  nature,  can  have  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing the  mind   recoil   upon   itself.     Infinity,   like 
hostility,   removes  us  from  things,   and  makes  us 
conscious  of  our  independence.     The  simultaneous 
view  of  many  things,  innumerable  attractions  felt 
together,  produce  equilibrium  and  indifference,  as 
effectually  as  the  exclusion  of  all.     If  we  may  call 
the  liberation  of  the  self  by  the  consciousness  of 
evil  in  the  world,  the  Stoic  sublime,  we  may  assert 
that  there  is  also  an  Epicurean  sublime,  which  con- 
sists in  liberation  by  equipoise.     Any  wide  survey 
is  sublime  in  that  fashion.     Each  detail  may  be 
beautiful.     We  may  even  be  ready  with  a  passion- 
ate response  to  its  appeal.    We  may  think  we  covet 
every  sort  of  pleasure,  and  lean  to  every  kind  of 
vigorous,  impulsive  life.     But  let  an  infinite  pano- 
rama be  suddenly  unfolded;  the  will  is  instantly 
paralyzed,  and  the  heart  choked.     It  is  impossible 
to   desire   everything  at   once,    and   when   all    is 
offered  and  approved,   it  is  impossible  to  choose 
everything.     In  this  suspense,  the  mind  soars  into 
a  kind  of  heaven,  benevolent  but  unmoved. 


242  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

This  is  the  attitude  of  all  minds  to  which  breadth 
of  interest  or  length  of  years  has  brought  balance 
and  dignity.  The  sacerdotal  quality  of  old  age 
comes  from  this  same  sympathy  in  disinterested- 
ness. Old  men  full  of  hurry  and  passion  appear 
as  fools,  because  we  understand  that  their  expe- 
rience has  not  left  enough  mark  upon  tlieir  brain 
to  qualify  with  the  memory  of  other  goods  any 
object  that  may  be  now  presented.  AVe  cannot 
venerate  any  one  in  whom  appreciation  is  not 
divorced  from  desire.  And  this  elevation  and 
detachment  of  the  heart  need  not  follow  upon  any 
great  disappointment;  it  is  finest  and  sweetest 
where  it  is  the  gradual  fruit  of  many  affections 
now  merged  and  mellowed  into  a  natural  piety. 
Indeed,  we  are  able  to  frame  our  idea  of  the  Deity 
on  no  other  model. 

When  the  pantheists  try  to  conceive  all  the 
parts  of  nature  as  forming  a  single  being,  which 
shall  contain  them  all  and  yet  have  absolute  unity, 
they  find  themselves  soon  denying  the  existence 
of  the  world  they  are  trying  to  deify;  for  nature, 
reduced  to  the  unity  it  would  assume  in  an  om- 
niscient ]nind,  is  no  longer  nature,  but  some- 
thing simple  and  impossible,  the  exact  op})Osite 
of  the  real  world.  Such  an  opposition  would  con- 
stitute the  liberation  of  the  divine  mind  from 
nature,  and  its  existence  as  a  self-conscious  indi- 
vidual. The  effort  after  comprehensiveness  of 
view  reduces  things  to  unity,  but  this  unity  stands 
out  in  opposition  to  the  manifold  phenomena  which 
it  transcends,  and  rejects  as  unreal. 


EXPRESSION  243 

Now  this  destruction  of  nature,  wliicli  the  meta- 
physicians since  Parmenides  have  so  often  repeated 
(nature  nevertheless  surviving  still),  is  but  a  theo- 
retical counterpart  and  hypostasis  of  what  happens 
in  every  man's  conscience  when  the  comprehen- 
siveness of  his  experience  lifts  him  into  thought, 
into  abstraction.  The  sense  of  the  sublime  is 
essentially  mystical:  it  is  the  transcending  of  dis- 
tinct perception  in  favour  of  a  feeling  of  unity  and 
volume.  So  in  the  moral  sphere,  we  have  the 
mutual  cancelling  of  the  passions  in  the  breast 
that  includes  them  all,  and  their  final  subsidence 
beneath  the  glance  that  compreliends  them.  This 
is  the  Epicurean  approach  to  detachment  and  per- 
fection; it  leads  by  systematic  acceptance  of  in- 
stinct to  the  same  goal  which  the  stoic  and  the 
ascetic  reach  by  systematic  rejection  of  instinct. 
It  is  thus  possible  to  be  moved  to  that  self-enfran- 
chisement which  constitutes  the  sublime,  even  when 
the  object  contains  no  expression  of  evil. 

This  conclusion  supports  that  part  of  our  defini- 
tion of  beauty  which  declares  that  the  values  beauty 
contains  are  all  positive;  a  definition  which  we 
should  have  had  to  change  if  we  had  found  that 
the  sublime  depended  upon  the  suggestion  of  evil 
for  its  effect.  But  the  sublime  is  not  the  ugly,  as 
some  descriptions  of  it  might  lead  us  to  suppose; 
it  is  the  supremely,  the  intoxicatingly  beautiful. 
It  is  the  pleasure  of  contemplation  reaching  such 
an  intensity  that  it  begins  to  lose  its  objectivity, 
and  to  declare  itself,  what  it  always  fundamentally 
was,  an  inward  passion  of  the  soul.     For  while  in 


244  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

the  beautiful  we  find  the  perfection  of  life  by  sink- 
ing into  the  object,  in  the  sublime  we  find  a  purer 
and  more  inalienable  perfection  by  defying  the 
object  altogether.  The  surprised  enlargement  of 
vision,  the  sudden  escape  from  our  ordinary  inter- 
ests and  the  identification  of  ourselves  with  some- 
thing permanent  and  superhuman,  something  much 
more  abstract  and  inalienable  than  our  changing  per- 
sonality, all  this  carries  us  away  from  the  blurred 
objects  before  us,  and  raises  us  into  a  sort  of  ecstasy. 
In  the  trite  examples  of  the  sublime,  where  we 
speak  of  the  vast  mass,  strength,  and  durability 
of  objects,  or  of  their  sinister  aspect,  as  if  w^e  were 
moved  by  them  on  account  of  our  own  danger,  we 
seem  to  miss  the  point.  For  the  suggestion  of  our 
own  danger  would  produce  a  touch  of  fear;  it 
would  be  a  practical  passion,  or  if  it  could  by 
chance  be  objectified  enough  to  become  aesthetic,  it 
would  merely  make  the  object  hateful  and  repul- 
sive, like  a  m^lngled  corpse.  The  object  is  sublime 
when  we  forget  our  danger,  when  we  escape  from 
ourselves  altogether,  and  live  as  it  were  in  the 
object  itself,  energizing  in  imitation  of  its  move- 
ment, and  saying,  "  Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one !  " 
This  passage  into  the  object,  to  live  its  life,  is 
indeed  a  characteristic  of  all  perfect  contempla- 
tion. But  when  in  thus  translating  ourselves  we 
rise  and  play  a  higher  personage,  feeling  the  exhila- 
ration of  a  life  freer  and  wilder  than  our  own,  then 
the  experience  is  one  of  sublimity.  The  emotion 
comes  not  from  the  situation  we  observe,  but  from 
the  powers  we  conceive;  we  fail  to  sympathize  with 


EXPRESSION  245 

the  struggling  sailors  because  we  sympathize  too 
mucli  with  the  wind  and  waves.  And  this  mysti- 
cal cruelty  can  extend  even  to  ourselves;  we  can 
so  feel  the  fascination  of  the  cosmic  forces  that 
engulf  us  as  to  take  a  fierce  joy  in  the  thought  of 
our  own  destruction.  We  can  identify  ourselves 
with  the  abstractest  essence  of  reality,  and,  raised 
to  that  height,  despise  the  human  accidents  of  our 
own  nature.  Lord,  we  say,  though  thou  slay  me, 
yet  will  I  trust  in  thee.  The  sense  of  suffering 
disappears  in  the  sense  of  life  and  the  imagination 
overwhelms  the  understanding. 

§  61.  Something  analogous  takes  place  The  comic. 
in  the  other  splieres  where  an  aesthetic  value  seems 
to  arise  out  of  suggestions  of  evil,  in  the  comic, 
namely,  and  the  grotesque.  But  here  the  trans- 
lation of  our  sympathies  is  partial,  and  we  are 
carried  away  from  ourselves  only  to  become 
smaller.  The  larger  humanity,  which  cannot  be 
absorbed,  remains  ready  to  contradict  the  absurd- 
ity of  our  fiction.  The  excellence  of  comedy  lies 
in  the  invitation  to  wander  along  some  by-path  of 
the  fancy,  among  scenes  not  essentially  impossible, 
but  not  to  be  actually  enacted  by  us  on  account  of 
the  fixed  circumstances  of  our  lives.  If  the  picture 
is  agreeable,  we  allow  ourselves  to  dream  it  true. 
We  forget  its  relations;  we  forbid  the  eye  to 
wander  beyond  the  frame  of  the  stage,  or  the 
conventions  of  the  fiction.  We  indulge  an  illu- 
sion which  deepens  our  sense  of  the  essential 
pleasantness  of  things. 


246  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

So  far,  there  is  notliing  in  comedy  tliat  is  not 
delightful,  except,  perhaps,  the  moment  when 
it  is  over.  But  fiction,  like  all  error  or  ab- 
straction, is  necessarily  unstable;  and  the  awaken- 
ing is  not  always  reserved  for  the  disheartening 
moment  at  the  end.  Everywhere,  when  we  are 
dealing  with  pretension  or  mistake,  we  come 
upon  sudden  and  vivid  contradictions;  changes  of 
view,  transformations  of  apperception  which  are 
extremely  stimulating  to  the  imagination.  We 
have  spoken  of  one  of  these:  when  the  sudden 
dissolution  of  our  common  habits  of  thought  lifts 
us  into  a  mystical  contemplation,  filled  with  the 
sense  of  the  sublime;  when  the  transformation  is 
back  to  common  sense  and  reality,  and  away  from 
some  fiction,  we  have  a  very  different  emotion.  We 
feel  cheated,  relieved,  abashed,  or  amused,  in  pro- 
portion as  our  sympathy  attaches  more  to  the  point 
of  view  surrendered  or  to  that  attained. 

The  disintegration  of  mental  forms  and  their 
redintegration  is  the  life  of  the  imagination.  It 
is  a  spiritual  process  of  birth  and  death,  nutrition 
and  generation.  The  strongest  emotions  accom- 
pany these  changes,  and  vary  infinitely  with  their 
variations.  All  the  qualities  of  discourse,  wit, 
eloquence,  cogency,  absurdity,  are  feelings  inci- 
dental to  this  process,  and  involved  in  the  juxta- 
positions, tensions,  and  resolutions  of  our  ideas. 
Doubtless  the  last  explanation  of  these  things 
would  be  cerebral;  but  we  are  as  yet  confined  to 
verbal  descriptions  and  classifications  of  them, 
which  are  always  more  or  less  arbitrary. 


EXPRESSION  247 

The  most  conspicuous  headings  under  which 
comic  effects  are  gathered  are  perhaps  incongru- 
ity and  degradation.  But  clearly  it  cannot  be  the 
logical  essence  of  incongruity  or  degradation  that 
constitutes  the  comic;  for  then  contradiction  and 
deterioration  would  always  amuse.  Amusement 
is  a  much  more  directly  physical  thing.  We  may 
he  amused  without  any  idea  at  all,  as  when  we  are 
tickled,  or  laugh  in  sympathy  with  others  by  a 
contagious  imitation  of  their  gestures.  We  may 
be  amused  by  the  mere  repetition  of  a  thing  at 
first  not  amusing.  There  must  therefore  be  some 
nervous  excitement  on  which  the  feeling  of  amuse- 
ment directly  depends,  although  this  excitement 
may  most  often  coincide  with  a  sudden  transition 
to  an  incongruous  or  meaner  image.  Nor  can  we 
suppose  that  particular  ideational  excitement  to  be 
entirely  dissimilar  to  all  others ;  wit  is  often  hardly 
distinguishable  from  brilliancy,  as  humour  from 
pathos.  We  must,  therefore,  be  satisfied  with  say- 
ing vaguely  tliat  the  process  of  ideation  involves 
various  feelings  of  movement  and  relation,  —  feel- 
ings capable  of  infinite  gradation  and  complexity, 
and  ranging  from  sublimity  to  tedium  and  from 
patlios  to  uncontrollable  merriment. 

Certain  crude  and  obvious  cases  of  the  comic 
seem  to  consist  of  little  more  than  a  shock  of  sur- 
prise: a  pun  is  a  sort  of  jack-in-the-box,  popping 
from  nowhere  into  our  plodding  thoughts.  The 
liveliness  of  the  interruption,  and  its  futility,  often 
please;  dnlce  est  desipere  in  loco ;  and  yet  those  who 
must  endure  the  society  of  inveterate  jokers  know 


248  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

liow  intolera'ble  this  sort  of  scintillation  can  be- 
come. There  is  something  inherently  vnlgar  about 
it;  perhaps  because  our  train  of  thought  cannot  be 
very  entertaining  in  itself  when  we  are  so  glad  to 
break  in  upon  it  with  irrelevant  nullities.  The 
same  undertone  of  disgust  mingles  with  other  amus- 
ing surprises,  as  when  a  dignified  personage  slips 
and  falls,  or  some  disguise  is  thrown  off,  or  those 
things  are  mentioned  and  described  which  conven- 
tion ignores.  The  novelty  and  the  freedom  please, 
yet  the  shock  often  outlasts  the  pleasure,  and  we 
have  cause  to  wish  we  had  been  stimulated  by  some- 
tliing  which  did  not  involve  this  degradation.  So, 
also,  the  impossibility  in  plausibility  which  tickles 
the  fancy  in  Irish  bulls,  and  in  wild  exaggerations, 
leaves  an  uncomfortable  impression,  a  certain  after- 
taste of  foolishness. 

The  reason  will  be  apparent  if  we  stop  to  ana- 
lyze the  situation.  We  have  a  ]3rosaic  background 
of  common  sense  and  every-day  reality;  upon  this 
background  an  unexpected  idea  suddenly  impinges. 
But  the  thing  is  a  futility.  The  comic  accident 
falsifies  the  nature  before  us,  starts  a  wrong  anal- 
ogy in  the  mind,  a  suggestion  that  cannot  be 
carried  out.  In  a  word,  we  are  in  the  presence 
of  an  absurdity;  and  man,  being  a  rational  ani- 
mal, can  like  absurdity  no  better  than  he  can 
like  hunger  or  cold.  A  pinch  of  either  may  not 
be  so  bad,  and  he  will  endure  it  merrily  enough  if 
you  repay  him  with  abundance  of  warm  victuals; 
so,  too,  he  will  play  with  all  kinds  of  nonsense  for 
the  sake  of  laughter  and  good  fellowship  and  the 


EXPRESSION  249 

tickling  of  his  fancy  with  a  sort  of  caricature  of 
thought.  But  the  qualm  remains,  and  the  pleasure 
is  never  perfect.  The  same  exhilaration  might 
have  come  without  the  falsification,  just  as  repose 
follows  more  swiftly  after  pleasant  than  after  pain- 
ful exertions. 

Fun  is  a  good  thing,  but  only  when  it  spoils 
nothing  better.  The  best  place  for  absurdity  is  in 
the  midst  of  what  is  already  absurd  —  then  we 
have  the  play  of  fancy  without  the  sense  of  inepti- 
tude. Things  amuse  us  in  the  mouth  of  a  fool  that 
would  not  amuse  us  in  that  of  a  gentleman ;  a  fact 
which  shows  how  little  incongruity  and  degrada- 
tion have  to  do  with  our  pleasure  in  the  comic.  In 
fact,  there  is  a  kind  of  congruity  and  method  even 
in  fooling.  The  incongruous  and  the  degraded  dis- 
please us  even  there,  as  by  their  nature  they  must 
at  all  times.  The  shock  which  they  bring  may 
sometimes  be  the  occasion  of  a  subsequent  pleas- 
ure, by  attracting  our  attention,  or  by  stimulating 
passions,  such  as  scorn,  or  cruelty,  or  self-satis- 
faction (for  there  is  a  good  deal  of  malice  in  our 
love  of  fun) ;  but  the  incongruity  and  degradation, 
as  such,  always  remain  unpleasant.  The  pleasure 
comes  from  the  inward  rationality  and  movement 
of  the  fiction,  not  from  its  inconsistency  with 
anything  else.  There  are  a  great  many  topsy- 
turvy worlds  possible  to  our  fancy,  into  which 
we  like  to  drop  at  times.  We  enjoy  the  stim- 
ulation and  the  shaking  up  of  our  wits.  It  is 
like  getting  into  a  new  posture,  or  hearing  a  new 
song. 


250  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

Xonsense  is  good  only  because  common  sense  is 
so  limited.  For  reason,  after  all,  is  one  conven- 
tion picked  out  of  a  thousand.  We  love  expansion, 
not  disorder,  and  when  we  attain  freedom  without 
incongruity  we  have  a  much  greater  and  a  much 
purer  delight.  The  excellence  of  wit  can  dispense 
with  absurdity.  For  on  the  same  prosaic  back- 
ground of  common  sense,  a  novelty  might  have 
appeared  that  was  not  absurd,  that  stimulated  the 
attention  quite  as  much  as  the  ridiculous,  without 
so  baffling  the  intelligence.  This  purer  and  more 
thoroughly  delightful  amusement  comes  from  what 
we  call  wdt. 

Wit.  §  62.    Wit  also  depends   upon  trans- 

formation and  substitution  of  ideas.  It  has  been 
said  to  consist  in  quick  association  by  similarity. 
The  substitution  must  here  be  valid,  however,  and 
the  similarity  real,  though  unforeseen.  Unex- 
pected justness  makes  wit,  as  sudden  incongruity 
makes  pleasant  foolishness.  It  is  characteristic  of 
wit  to  penetrate  into  hidden  depths  of  things,  to 
pick  out  there  some  telling  circumstance  or  relation, 
by  noting  which  the  whole  object  appears  in  a  new 
and  clearer  light.  Wit  often  seems  malicious  be- 
cause analysis  in  discovering  common  traits  and 
universal  principles  assimilates  things  at  the  poles 
of  being;  it  can  apply  to  cookery  the  formulas  of 
theology,  and  find  in  the  human  heart  a  case  of  the 
fulcrum  and  lever.  We  commonlj^  keep  the  depart- 
ments of  experience  distinct;  we  think  the  differ- 
ent principles  hold  in  each  and  that  the  dignity  of 


EXPRESSION  251 

Spirit  is  inconsistent  with  tlie  explanation  of  it 
by  physical  analogy,  and  the  meanness  of  matter 
unworthy  of  being  an  illustration  of  moral  truths. 
Love  must  not  be  classed  under  physical  cravings, 
nor  faith  under  hypnotization.  When,  therefore, 
an  original  mind  overleaps  these  boundaries,  and 
recasts  its  categories,  mixing  up  our  old  classifica- 
tions, we  feel  that  the  values  of  things  are  also 
confused.  But  these  depended  upon  a  deeper  rela- 
tion, upon  their  response  to  human  needs  and  aspi- 
rations. All  that  can  be  changed  by  the  exercise 
of  intelligence  is  our  sense  of  the  unity  and  homo- 
geneity of  the  world.  We  may  come  to  hold  an 
object  of  thought  in  less  isolated  respect,  and  an- 
other in  less  hasty  derision;  but  the  pleasures  we 
derive  from  all,  or  our  total  happiness  and 
wonder,  will  hardly  be  diminished.  For  this 
reason  the  malicious  or  destructive  character  of 
intelligence  must  not  be  regarded  as  fundamen- 
tal. Wit  belittles  one  thing  and  dignifies  another; 
and  its  comparisons  are  as  often  flattering  as  iron- 
ical. 

The  same  process  of  mind  that  we  observed  in 
wit  gives  rise  to  those  effects  we  call  charming, 
brilliant,    or   inspired.     When   Shakespeare  says, 

Come  and  kiss  me,  siveet  and  twenty^ 
Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure, 

the  fancy  of  the  phrase  consists  in  a  happy  substi- 
tution, a  merry  way  of  saying  something  both  true 
and  tender.  And  where  could  we  find  a  more  ex- 
quisite charm?     So,  to  take  a  weightier  example, 


252  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

when  St.  Angnstine  says  the  virtues  of  the  pagans 
were  splendid  vices,  we  have  —  at  least  if  we  catch 
the  full  meaning  —  a  pungent  assimilation  of  con- 
trary things,  by  force  of  a  powerful  principle;  a 
triumph  of  theory,  the  boldness  of  which  can  only 
be  matched  by  its  consistency.  In  fact,  a  phrase 
could  not  be  more  brilliant,  or  better  condense  one 
theology  and  two  civilizations.  The  Latin  mind  is 
particularly  capable  of  this  sort  of  excellence. 
Tacitus  alone  could  furnish  a  hundred  examples. 
It  goes  with  the  poAver  of  satirical  and  bitter  elo- 
quence, a  sort  of  scornful  rudeness  of  intelligence, 
that  makes  for  the  core  of  a  passion  or  of  a  charac- 
ter, and  affixes  to  it  a  more  or  less  scandalous  label. 
For  in  our  analytical  zeal  it  is  often  possible  to 
condense  and  abstract  too  much.  Eeality  is  more 
fluid  and  elusive  than  reason,  and  has,  as  it  were, 
more  dimensions  than  are  known  even  to  the  latest 
geometry.  Hence  the  understanding,  when  not 
suffused  with  some  glow  of  sympathetic  emotion  or 
some  touch  of  mysticism,  gives  but  a  dry,  crude 
image  of  the  world.  The  quality  of  wit  inspires 
more  admiration  tlian  confidence.  It  is  a  merit 
we  should  miss  little  in  any  one  we  love. 

The  same  principle,  however,  can  have  more  sen- 
timental embodiments.  When  our  substitutions  are 
brought  on  by  the  excitement  of  generous  emotion, 
we  call  wit  inspiration.  There  is  the  same  finding 
of  new  analogies,  and  likening  of  disparate  things; 
there  is  the  same  transformation  of  our  appercep- 
tion. But  the  brilliancy  is  here  not  only  penetrat- 
ing, but  also  exalting.     For  instance : 


EXPRESSION  253 

Peace,  peace,  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep, 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life  : 

'Tis  we  that  wrapped  in  stormy  visions  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 

There  is  here  paradox,  and  paradox  justified  by 
reflection.  The  poet  analyzes,  and  analyzes  with- 
out reserve.  The  dream,  the  storm,  the  phantoms, 
and  the  unprofitableness  could  easily  make  a  satiri- 
cal picture.  But  the  mood  is  transmuted ;  the  mind 
takes  an  upward  flight,  with  a  sense  of  liberation 
from  the  convention  it  dissolves,  and  of  freer  motion 
in  the  vagueness  beyond.  The  disintegration  of  our 
ideal  here  leads  to  mysticism,  and  because  of  this 
effort  towards  transcendence,  the  brilliancy  becomes 
sublime. 

§  63.  A  different  mood  can  give  a  dif-  f^^rnour. 
ferent  direction  to  the  same  processes.  The  sym- 
pathy by  which  we  reproduce  the  feeling  of  another, 
is  always  very  much  opposed  to  the  sesthetic  atti- 
tude to  which  the  whole  world  is  merely  a  stimu- 
lus  to  our  sensibility.  In  the  tragic,  we  have  seen 
how  the  sympathetic  feeling,  by  which  suffering 
is  appreciated  and  shared,  has  to  be  overlaid  by 
many  incidental  aesthetic  pleasures,  if  the  result- 
ing effect  is  to  be  on  the  whole  good.  We  have 
also  seen  hovf  the  only  way  in  which  the  ridiculous 
can  be  kept  within  the  sphere  of  the  aesthetically 
good  is  abstracting  it  from  its  relations,  and  treat- 
ing it  as  an  independent  and  curious  stimulus;  we 
should  stop  laughing  and  begin  to  be  annoyed  if 
we  tried  to  make  sense  out  of  our  absurdity.     The 


254  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

less  sympathy  we  have  with  men  the  more  ex- 
quisite is  our  enjoyment  of  their  folly:  satiri- 
cal delight  is  closely  akin  to  cruelty.  Defect  and 
mishap  stimulate  our  fancy,  as  blood  and  tortures 
excite  in  us  the  passions  of  the  beast  of  prey.  The 
more  this  inhuman  attitude  yields  to  sympathy 
and  reason,  the  less  are  folly  and  error  capable  of 
amusing  us.  It  would  therefore  seem  impossible 
that  we  should  be  pleased  by  the  foibles  or  absurd- 
ities of  those  we  love.  And  in  fact  we  never 
enjoy  seeing  our  own  persons  in  a  satirical  light, 
or  any  one  else  for  whom  we  really  feel  affection. 
Even  in  farces,  the  hero  and  heroine  are  seldom 
made  ridiculous,  because  that  would  jar  upon  the 
sympathy  with  which  we  are  expected  to  regard 
them.  Nevertheless,  the  essence  of  what  we  call 
humour  is  that  amusing  weaknesses  should  be  com- 
bined with  an  amicable  humanity.  Whether  it  be 
in  the  way  of  ingenuity,  or  oddity,  or  drollery,  the 
humorous  person  must  have  an  absurd  side,  or  be 
placed  in  an  absurd  situation.  Yet  this  comic 
aspect,  at  which  we  ought  to  wince,  seems  to  en- 
dear the  character  all  the  more.  This  is  a  parallel 
case  to  that  of  tragedy,  where  the  depth  of  the  woe 
we  sympathize  with  seems  to  add  to  our  satisfac- 
tion. And  the  explanation  of  the  paradox  is  the 
same.  We  do  not  enjoy  the  expression  of  evil,  but 
only  the  pleasant  excitements  that  come  with  it ; 
namely,  the  physical  stimulus  and  the  expression 
of  good.  In  tragedy,  the  misfortunes  help  to  give 
the  impression  of  truth,  and  to  bring  out  the  noble 
qualities  of  the  hero,  but  are  in  themselves  depress- 


EXPRESSION  255 

ing,  so  much  so  that  over-sensitive  people  cannot 
enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  representation.  So  also  in 
humour,  the  painful  suggestions  are  felt  as  such, 
and  need  to  be  overbalanced  by  agreeable  elements. 
These  come  from  both  directions,  from  the  sesthetic 
and  the  sympathetic  reaction.  On  the  one  hand 
there  is  the  sensuous  and  merely  perceptive  stimu- 
lation, the  novelty,  the  movement,  the  vivacity  of 
the  spectacle.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  the 
luxury  of  imaginative  sympathy,  the  mental  as- 
similr.tion  of  another  congenial  experience,  the 
expansion  into  another  life. 

The  juxtaposition  of  these  two  pleasures  pro- 
duces just  that  tension  and  complication  in  which 
the  humorous  consists.  We  are  satirical,  and  Ave 
are  friendly  at  the  same  time.  The  consciousness 
of  the  friendship  gives  a  regretful  and  tender  touch 
to  the  satire,  and  the  sting  of  the  satire  makes  the 
friendship  a  trifle  humble  a,nd  sad.  Don  Quixote 
is  mad;  he  is  old,  useless,  and  ridiculous,  but  he 
is  the  soul  of  honour,  and  in  all  his  laughable 
adventures  we  follow  him  like  the  ghost  of  our 
better  selves.  We  enjoy  his  discomfitures  too 
much  to  wish  he  had  been  a  perfect  Amadis ;  and 
we  have  besides  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  he  is  the 
only  kind  of  Amadis  there  can  ever  be  in  this 
world.  At  the  same  time  it  does  us  good  to  see 
the  coura-ge  of  his  idealism,  the  ingenuity  of  his 
wit,  and  the  simplicity  of  his  goodness.  But  how 
shall  we  reconcile  our  sympathy  with  his  dream 
and  our  perception  of  its  absurdit^^?  The  situa- 
tion is  contradictory.     We  are  drawn  to  some  dif- 


256  THE   SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

ferent  point  of  view,  from  wliicli  the  comedy  may 
no  longer  seem  so  amusing.  As  humour  becomes 
deep  and  really  different  from  satire,  it  changes 
into  pathos,  and  passes  out  of  the  sphere  of  the 
comic  altogether.  The  mischances  that  were  to 
amuse  us  as  scoffers  now  grieve  us  as  men,  and  the 
value  of  the  representation  depends  on  the  touches 
of  beauty  and  seriousness  with  which  it  is  adorned. 

The  grotesque.  §  04.  Something  analogous  to  humour 
can  appear  in  plastic  forms,  when  we  call  it  the 
grotesque.  This  is  an  interesting  effect  produced 
by  such  a  transformation  of  an  ideal  type  as  exag- 
gerates one  of  its  elements  or  combines  it  with 
other  types.  The  real  excellence  of  this,  like 
that  of  all  fiction,  consists  in  re-creation;  in  the 
formation  of  a  thing  which  nature  has  not,  but 
might  conceivably  have  offered.  We  call  these 
inventions  comic  and  grotesque  when  we  are  con- 
sidering their  divergence  from  the  natural  rather 
than  their  inward  possibility.  But  the  latter  con- 
stitutes their  real  charm ;  and  the  more  we  study 
and  develope  them,  the  better  we  understand  it. 
The  incongruity  with  the  conventional  type  then 
disappears,  and  what  was  impossible  and  ridiculous 
at  first  takes  its  place  among  recognized  ideals. 
The  centaur  and  the  satyr  are  no  longer  grotesque ; 
the  type  is  accepted.  And  the  grotesqueness  of 
an  individual  has  essentially  the  same  nature.  If 
we  like  the  inward  harmony,  the  characteristic 
balance  of  liis  features,  we  are  able  to  disengage 
this  individual  from  the  class  into  which  we  were 


EXPRESSION  257 

trying  to  force  him;  we  can  forget  the  expecta- 
tion which  he  was  going  to  disappoint.  The  ugli- 
ness then  disappears,  and  only  the  reassertion  of 
the  old  habit  and  demand  can  make  us  regard  him 
as  in  any  way  extravagant. 

What  appears  as  grotesque  may  be  intrinsically 
inferior  or  superior  to  the  normal.  That  is  a 
question  of  its  abstract  material  and  form.  But 
until  the  new  object  impresses  its  form  on  our 
imagination,  so  that  we  can  grasp  its  unity  and 
proportion,  it  appears  to  us  as  a  jumble  and  distor- 
tion of  other  forms.  If  this  confusion  is  absolute, 
the  object  is  simply  null;  it  does  not  exist  aestheti- 
cally, except  by  virtue  of  materials.  But  if  the 
confusion  is  not  absolute,  and  we  have  an  ink- 
ling of  the  unity  and  character  in  the  midst  of  the 
strangeness  of  the  form,  then  we  have  the  gro- 
tesque. It  is  the  half -formed,  the  perplexed,  and 
the  suggestively  monstrous. 

The  analogy  to  the  comic  is  very  close,  as  we 
can  readily  conceive  that  it  should  be.  In  the 
comic  we  have  this  same  juxtaposition  of  a  new 
and  an  old  idea,  and  if  the  new  is  not  futile  and 
really  inconceivable,  it  may  in  time  establish  itself 
in  the  mind,  and  cease  to  be  ludicrous.  Good  wit 
is  novel  truth,  as  the  good  grotesque  is  novel 
beauty.  But  there  are  natural  conditions  of  organ- 
ization, and  we  must  not  mistake  every  mutilation 
for  the  creation  of  a  new  form.  The  tendency  of 
nature  to  establish  well-marked  species  of  animals 
shows  what  various  combinations  are  most  stable 
in  the  face  of  physical  forces,  and  there  is  a  fitness 
s 


258  THE   SENSE   OF   BEAUTY 

also  for  survival  in  the  mind,  which  is  determined 
by  the  relation  of  any  form  to  our  fixed  metliod  of 
perception.  New  things  are  therefore  generally  bad 
because,  as  has  been  well  said,  they  are  incapa- 
ble of  becoming  old.  A  thousand  originalities  are 
produced  by  defect  of  faculty,  for  one  that  is  pro- 
duced by  genius.  For  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty,  as 
in  that  of  truth,  an  infinite  number  of  paths  lead 
to  failure,  and  only  one  to  success. 

The  possibility  §  g5.  If  thcsc  observations  have  any 
fection.  accuracy,  they  confirm  this   important 

truth,  —  that  no  aesthetic  value  is  really 
founded  on  the  experience  or  the  suggestion  of 
evil.  This  conclusion  will  doubtless  seem  the 
more  interesting  if  we  think  of  its  possible  exten- 
sion to  the  field  of  ethics  and  of  the  implied  vindi- 
cation of  the  ideal  of  moral  perfection  as  something 
essentially  definable  and  attainable.  But  without 
insisting  on  an  analogy  to  ethics,  which  might  be 
misleading,  we  may  hasten  to  state  the  principle 
which  emerges  from  our  anal3^sis  of  expression. 
Expressiveness  may  be  found  in  any  one  thing 
that  suggests  another,  or  draws  from  association 
with  that  other  any  of  its  emotional  colouring. 
There  may,  therefore,  of  course,  be  an  expressive- 
ness of  evil;  but  this  expressiveness  will  not  have 
any  aesthetic  value.  The  description  or  sugges- 
tion of  suffering  may  have  a  worth  as  science  or 
discipline,  but  can  never  in  itself  enhance  any 
beauty.  Tragedy  and  comedy  please  in  spite  of 
this  expressiveness  and  not  by  virtue  of  it;    and 


EXPRESSION  259 

except  for  the  pleasures  they  give,  they  have  no 
place  among  the  fine  arts.  Nor  have  they,  in  such 
a  case,  any  place  in  human  life  at  all;  unless  tliey 
are  instruments  of  some  practical  purpose  and  serve 
to  preach  a  moral,  or  achieve  a  bad  notoriety. 
For  ugly  things  can  attract  attention,  although 
they  cannot  keep  it;  and  the  scandal  of  a  new  hor- 
ror may  secure  a  certain  vulgar  admiration  which 
follows  w^liatever  is  momentarily  conspicuous,  and 
which  is  attained  even  by  crime.  Such  admiration, 
however,  has  nothing  sesthetic  about  it,  and  is  only 
made  possible  by  the  bluntness  of  our  sense  of 
beauty. 

The  effect;  of  the  pathetic  and  comic  is  therefore 
never  pure;  since  the  expression  of  some  evil  is 
mixed  up  with  those  elements  by  which  the  whole 
appeals  to  us.  These  elements  we  have  seen  to  be 
the  truth  of  the  presentation,  which  involves  the 
pleasures  of  recognition  and  comprehension,  the 
beauty  of  the  medium,  and  the  concomitant  expres- 
sion of  things  intrinsically  good.  To  these  sources 
all  the  aesthetic  value  of  comic  and  tragic  is  due ; 
and  the  sympathetic  emotion  which  arises  from 
the  spectacle  of  evil  must  never  be  allowed  to 
overpower  these  pleasures  of  contemplation,  else 
the  entire  object  becomes  distasteful  and  loses 
its  excuse  for  being.  Too  exclusive  a  relish  for 
the  comic  and  pathetic  is  accordingly  a  sign  of 
bad  taste  and  of  comparative  insensibility  to 
beauty. 

This  situation  has  generally  been  appreciated  in 
the  practice  of  the  arts,  where  effect  is  perpetually 


260  THE   SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

studied;  but  the  greatest  care  has  not  always  suc- 
ceeded in  avoiding  the  dangers  of  the  pathetic,  and 
history  is  full  of  failures  due  to  bombast,  carica- 
ture, and  unmitigated  horror.  In  all  these  the 
effort  to  be  expressive  has  transgressed  the  condi- 
tions of  pleasing  effect.  For  the  creative  and 
imitative  impulse  is  indiscriminate.  It  does  not 
consider  the  eventual  beauty  of  the  effect,  but  only 
the  blind  instinct  of  self-expression.  Hence  an 
untrained  and  not  naturally  sensitive  mind  cannot 
distinguish  or  produce  anything  good.  This  criti- 
cal incapacity  has  always  been  a  cause  of  failure 
and  a  just  ground  for  ridicule ;  but  it  remained  for 
some  thinkers  of  our  time  —  a  time  of  little  art 
and  much  undisciplined  production  —  to  erect  this 
abuse  into  a  principle  and  declare  that  the  essence 
of  beauty  is  to  express  the  artist  and  not  to  delight 
the  world.  But  the  conditions  of  effect,  and  the 
possibility  of  pleasing,  are  the  only  criterion  of 
what  is  capable  and  worthy  of  expression.  Art 
exists  and  has  value  by  its  adaptation  to  these 
universal  conditions  of  beauty. 

Nothing  but  the  good  of  life  enters  into  the 
texture  of  the  beautiful.  What  charms  us  in  the 
comic,  what  stirs  us  in  the  sublime  and  touches 
us  in  the  pathetic,  is  a  glimpse  of  some  good; 
imperfection  has  value  only  as  an  incipient  per- 
fection. Could  the  labours  and  sufferings  of  life  be 
reduced,  and  a  better  harmony  between  man  and 
nature  be  established,  nothing  would  be  lost  to  the 
arts ;  for  the  pure  and  ultimate  value  of  the  comic 
is  discovery,  of  the  pathetic,  love,  of  the  sublime, 


EXPRESSION  261 

exaltation;  and  these  would  still  subsist.  Indeed, 
they  would  all  be  increased;  and  it  has  ever  been, 
accordingly,  in  the  happiest  and  most  prosperous 
moments  of  humanity,  when  the  mind  and  the 
world  were  knit  into  a  brief  embrace,  that  natural 
beauty  has  been  best  perceived,  and  art  has  won  its 
triumphs.  But  it  sometimes  happens,  in  moments 
less  propitious,  that  the  soul  is  subdued  to  what  it 
works  in,  and  loses  its  power  of  idealization  and 
hope.  By  a  pathetic  and  superstitious  self-depre- 
ciation, we  then  punish  ourselves  for  the  imper- 
fection of  nature.  Awed  by  the  magnitude  of  a 
reality  that  we  can  no  longer  conceive  as  free  from 
evil,  we  try  to  assert  that  its  evil  also  is  a  good; 
and  we  poison  the  very  essence  of  the  good  to  make 
its  extension  universal.  We  confuse  the  causal 
connexion  of  those  things  in  nature  which  we  call 
good  or  evil  by  an  adventitious  denomination,  with 
the  logical  opposition  between  good  and  evil  them- 
selves; because  one  generation  makes  room  for 
another,  we  say  death  is  necessary  to  life;  and 
because  the  causes  of  sorrow  and  joy  are  so  min- 
gled in  this  world,  we  cannot  conceive  how,  in  a 
better  world,  they  might  be  disentangled. 

This  incapacity  of  the  imagination  to  reconstruct 
the  conditions  of  life  and  build  the  frame  of  things 
nearer  to  the  heart's  desire  is  very  fatal  to  a  steady 
loyalty  to  what  is  noble  and  fine.  We  surrender 
ourselves  to  a  kind  of  miscellaneous  appreciation, 
without  standard  or  goal;  and  calling  every  vexa- 
tious apparition  by  the  name  of  beauty,  we  become 
incapable  of  discriminating  its  excellence  or  feel- 


262  TliE  SENSE   OF  BEAUTY 

ing  its  value.  We  need  to  clarify  our  ideals,  and 
enliven  our  vision  of  perfection.  No  atheism  is  so 
terrible  as  the  absence  of  an  ultimate  ideal,  nor 
could  any  failure  of  power  be  more  contrary  to 
human  nature  than  the  failure  of  moral  imagina- 
tion, or  more  incompatible  with  healthy  life.  For 
we  have  faculties,  and  habits,  and  impulses.  These 
are  the  basis  of  our  demands.  And  these  demands, 
although  variable,  constitute  an  ever-present  in- 
trinsic standard  of  value  by  which  we  feel  and 
judge.  The  ideal  is  immanent  in  them;  for  the 
ideal  means  that  environment  in  which  our  facul- 
ties would  find  their  freest  employment,  and  their 
most  congenial  world.  Perfection  would  be  noth- 
ing but  life  under  those  conditions.  Accordingly 
our  consciousness  of  the  ideal  becomes  distinct  in 
proportion  as  we  advance  in  virtue  and  in  propor- 
tion to  the  vigour  and  definiteness  with  which  our 
faculties  work.  When  the  vital  harmony  is  com- 
plete, when  the  act  is  pure,  faith  in  perfection 
passes  into  vision.  That  man  is  unhappy  indeed, 
who  in  all  his  life  has  had  no  glimpse  of  perfec- 
tion, who  in  the  ecstasy  of  love,  or  in  the  delight 
of  contemplation,  has  never  been  able  to  say :  It  is 
attained.  Such  moments  of  inspiration  are  the 
source  of  the  arts,  which  have  no  higher  function 
than  to  renew  them. 

A  work  of  art  is  indeed  a  monument  to  such  a 
moment,  the  memorial  to  such  a  vision;  and  its 
charm  varies  with  its  power  of  recalling  us  from 
the  distractions  of  common  life  to  the  joy  of  a  more 
natural  and  perfect  activity. 


EXPRESSION  263 

§  66.  Tlie  perfection  thus  revealed  is  The  stability 
relative  to  our  nature  and  faculties ;  if  '^ 
it  were  not,  it  could  have  no  value  for  us.  It  is 
revealed  to  us  in  brief  moments,  but  it  is  not  for 
that  reason  an  unstable  or  fantastic  thing.  Human 
attention  inevitably  flickers ;  we  survey  things  in 
succession,  and  our  acts  of  synthesis  and  our  reali- 
zation of  fact  are  only  occasional.  This  is  the 
tenure  of  all  our  possessions;  we  are  not  unin- 
terruptedly conscious  of  ourselves,  our  physical 
environment,  our  ruling  passions,  or  our  deepest 
conviction.  What  wonder,  then,  that  we  are  not 
constantly  conscious  of  that  perfection  which  is 
the  implicit  ideal  of  all  our  preferences  and  de- 
sires? We  view  it  only  in  parts,  as  passion  or 
perception  successively  directs  our  attention  to  its 
various  elements.  Some  of  us  never  try  to  con- 
ceive it  in  its  totality.  Yet  our  whole  life  is  an 
act  of  worship  to  this  unknown  divinity;  every 
heartfelt  prayer  is  offered  before  one  or  another  of 
its  images. 

This  ideal  of  perfection  varies,  indeed,  but  only 
with  the  variations  of  our  nature  of  which  it  is  the 
counterpart  and  entelechy.  There  is  perhaps  no 
more  frivolous  notion  than  that  to  which  Schopen- 
hauer has  given  a  new  currency,  that  a  good,  once 
attained,  loses  all  its  value.  The  instability  of 
our  attention,  the  need  of  rest  and  repair  in  our 
organs,  makes  a  round  of  objects  necessary  to  our 
minds;  but  we  turn  from  a  beautiful  thing,  as 
from  a  truth  or  a  friend,  only  to  return  incessantly, 
and  with  increasing  appreciation.     Nor  do  we  lose 


264  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

all  the  benefit  of  our  achievements  in  the  intervals 
between  our  vivid  realizations  of  what  we  have 
gained.  The  tone  of  the  mind  is  permanently 
raised;  and  we  live  with  that  general  sense  of 
steadfastness  and  resource,  which  is  perhaps  the 
kernel  of  happiness.  Knowledge,  affection,  relig- 
ion, and  beauty  are  not  less  constant  influences 
in  a  man's  life  because  his  consciousness  of  them 
is  intermittent.  Even  when  absent,  they  fill  the 
chambers  of  the  mind  with  a  kind  of  fragrance. 
They  have  a  continual  efficacy,  as  well  as  a  peren- 
nial worth. 

There  are,  indeed,  other  objects  of  desire  that  if 
attained  leave  nothing  but  restlessness  and  dissat- 
isfaction behind  them.  These  are  the  objects  pur- 
sued by  fools.  That  such  objects  ever  attract  us  is 
a  proof  of  the  disorganization  of  our  nature,  which 
drives  us  in  contrary  directions  and  is  at  war  with 
itself.  If  we  had  attained  anything  like  steadiness 
of  thought  or  fixity  of  character,  if  we  knew  our- 
selves, we  should  know  also  our  inalienable  satis- 
factions. To  say  that  all  goods  become  worthless 
in  possession  is  either  a  piece  of  superficial  satire 
that  intentionally  denies  the  normal  in  order  to 
make  the  abnormal  seem  more  shocking,  or  else  it 
is  a  confession  of  frivolity,  a  confession  that,  as 
an  idiot  never  learns  to  distinguish  reality  amid 
the  phantasms  of  his  brain,  so  we  have  never 
learned  to  distinguish  true  goods  amid  our  extrava- 
gances of  whim  and  passion.  That  true  goods  exist 
is  nevertheless  a  fact  of  moral  experience.  "A 
thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  " ;  a  great  affection, 


EXPRESSION  265 

a  clear  thought,  a  profound  and  well-tried  faith, 
are  eternal  possessions.  And  this  is  not  merely  a 
fact,  to  be  asserted  upon  the  authority  of  those 
who  know  it  by  experience.  It  is  a  psychological 
necessity.  While  we  retain  the  same  senses,  we 
must  get  the  same  impressions  from  the  same 
objects ;  while  we  keep  our  instincts  and  passions, 
we  must  pursue  the  same  goods;  while  we  have 
the  same  powers  of  imagination,  we  must  experi- 
ence the  same  delight  in  their  exercise.  Age 
brings  about,  of  course,  variation  in  all  these  par- 
ticulars, and  the  susceptibility  of  two  individuals 
is  never  exactly  similar.  But  the  eventual  decay 
of  our  personal  energies  does  not  destroy  the 
natural  value  of  objects,  so  long  as  the  same  will 
embodies  itself  in  other  minds,  and  human  nature 
subsists  in  the  world.  The  sun  is  not  now  unreal 
because  each  one  of  us  in  succession,  and  all  of  us 
in  the  end,  must  close  our  eyes  upon  it;  and  yet 
the  sun  exists  for  us  only  because  we  perceive  it. 
The  ideal  has  the  same  conditions  of  being,  but 
has  this  advantage  over  the  sun,  that  we  cannot 
know  if  its  light  is  ever  destined  to  fail  us. 

There  is  then  a  broad  foundation  of  identity  in 
our  nature,  by  virtue  of  which  we  live  in  a  common 
world,  and  have  an  art  and  a  religion  in  common. 
That  the  ideal  should  be  constant  within  these 
limits  is  as  inevitable  as  that  it  should  vary  be- 
yond them.  And  so  long  as  we  exist  and  recognize 
ourselves  individually  as  persons  or  collectively  as 
human,  we  must  recognize  also  our  immanent  ideal, 
the  realization  of  which  would  constitute  perfection 


266  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

for  us.  That  ideal  cannot  be  destroyed  except  in 
proportion  as  we  ourselves  perish.  An  absolute 
perfection,  independent  of  human  nature  and  its 
variations,  may  interest  the  metaphysician ;  but  the 
artist  and  the  man  will  be  satisfied  with  a  perfec- 
tion that  is  inseparable  from  the  consciousness  of 
mankind,  since  it  is  at  once  the  natural  vision  of 
the  imagination,  and  the  rational  goal  of  the  will. 

Conclusion.  §  67.    We  have  now  studied  the  sense 

of  beauty  in  what  seem  to  be  its  fundamental  mani- 
f  esta,tions,  and  in  some  of  the  more  striking  compli- 
cations which  it  undergoes.  In  surveying  so  broad 
a  field  we  stand  in  need  of  some  classification  and 
subdivision;  and  we  have  chosen  the  familiar  one 
of  matter,  form,  and  expression,  as  least  likely  to 
lead  us  into  needless  artificiality.  But  artificiality 
there  must  always  be  in  the  discursive  description 
of  anything  given  in  consciousness.  Psychology 
attempts  what  is  perhaps  impossible,  namely,  the 
anatomy  of  life.  Mind  is  a  fluid;  the  lights  and 
shadows  that  flicker  through  it  have  no  real  boun- 
daries, and  no  possibility  of  permanence.  Our 
whole  classification  of  mental  facts  is  borrowed 
from  the  physical  conditions  or  expressions  of 
them.  The  very  senses  are  distinguished  because 
of  the  readiness  with  which  we  can  isolate  their 
outer  organs.  Ideas  can  be  identified  only  by 
identifying  their  objects.  Feelings  are  recognized 
by  their  outer  expression,  and  when  we  try  to  recall 
an  emotion,  we  must  do  so  by  recalling  the  circum- 
stances in  which  it  occurred. 


EXPRESSION  267 

In  distinguisliing,  then,  in  our  sense  of  beauty, 
an  appreciation  of  sensible  material,  one  of  abstract 
form,  and  another  of  associated  values,  we  have 
been  merely  following  the  established  method  of 
psychology,  the  only  one  by  which  it  is  possible  to 
analyze  the  mind.  We  have  distinguished  the  ele- 
ments of  the  object,  and  treated  the  feeling  as  if  it 
were  composed  of  corresponding  parts.  The  worlds 
of  nature  and  fancy,  which  are  the  object  of  aes- 
thetic feeling,  can  be  divided  into  parts  in  space 
and  time.  We  can  then  distinguish  the  material 
of  things  from  the  various  forms  it  may  succes- 
sively assume;  we  can  distinguish,  also,  the  earlier 
and  the  later  impressions  made  by  the  same  object; 
and  we  can  ascertain  the  coexistence  of  one  impres- 
sion with  another,  or  with  the  memory  of  others. 
But  aesthetic  feeling  itself  has  no  parts,  and  this 
physiology  of  its  causes  is  not  a  description  of  its 
proper  nature. 

Beauty  as  we  feel  it  is  something  indescribable : 
what  it  is  or  what  it  means  can  never  be  said.  By 
appealing  to  experiment  and  memory  we  can  show 
that  this  feeling  varies  as  certain  things  vary  in 
the  objective  conditions;  that  it  varies  with  the 
frequency,  for  instance,  with  which  a  form  has 
been  presented,  or  with  the  associates  which  that 
form  has  had  in  the  past.  This  will  justify  a 
description  of  the  feeling  as  composed  of  the  vari- 
ous contributions  of  these  objects.  But  the  feeling 
itself  knows  notliing  of  composition  nor  contribu- 
tions. It  is  an  affection  of  the  soul,  a  conscious- 
ness of  joy  and  security,  a  pang,  a  dream,  a  pure 


268  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

pleasure.  It  suffuses  an  object  without  telling 
why;  nor  has  it  any  need  to  ask  the  question.  It 
justifies  itself  and  the  vision  it  gilds ;  nor  is  there 
any  meaning  in  seeking  for  a  cause  of  it,  in  this 
inward  sense.  Beauty  exists  for  the  same  reason 
that  the  object  which  is  beautiful  exists,  or  the 
world  in  which  that  object  lies,  or  we  that  look 
upon  both.  It  is  an  experience :  there  is  nothing 
more  to  say  about  it.  Indeed,  if  we  look  at  things 
teleologically,  and  as  they  ultimately  justify  them- 
selves to  the  heart,  beauty  is  of  all  things  what 
least  calls  for  explanation.  For  matter  and  space 
and  time  and  principles  of  reason  and  of  evolution, 
all  are  ultimately  brute,  unaccountable  data.  We 
may  describe  what  actually  is,  but  it  might  have 
been  otherwise,  and  the  mystery  of  its  being  is  as 
baffling  and  dark  as  ever. 

But  we, — the  minds  that  ask  all  questions  and 
judge  of  the  validity  of  all  answers,  —  we  are  not 
ourselves  independent  of  this  world  in  which  we 
live.  We  sprang  from  it,  and  our  relations  in  it 
determine  all  our  instincts  and  satisfactions.  This 
final  questioning  and  sense  of  mystery  is  an  unsat- 
isfied craving  which 'nature  has  her  way  of  stilling. 
Now  we  only  ask  for  reasons  when  we  are  sur- 
prised. If  we  had  no  expectations  we  should  have 
no  surprises.  And  what  gives  us  expectation  is 
the  spontaneous  direction  of  our  thought,  deter- 
mined by  the  structure  of  our  brain  and  the  effects 
of  our  experience.  If  our  spontaneous  thoughts 
came  to  run  in  harmony  with  the  course  of  nature, 
if  our  expectations  were  then  continually  fulfilled, 


EXPRESSION  269 

the  sense  of  mystery  would  vanish.  We  should  be 
incapable  of  asking  why  the  world  existed  or  had 
such  a  nature,  just  as  we  are  now  little  inclined  to 
ask  why  anything  is  right,  but  mightily  disinclined 
it  give  up  asking  why  anything  is  wrong. 

This  satisfaction  of  our  reason,  due  to  the  har- 
mony between  our  nature  and  our  experience,  is 
partially  realized  already.  The  sense  of  beauty  is 
its  realization.  When  our  senses  and  imagination 
find  what  they  crave,  when  the  world  so  shapes 
itself  or  so  moulds  the  mind  that  the  correspond- 
ence between  them  is  perfect,  then  perception  is 
pleasure,  and  existence  needs  no  apology.  The 
duality  which  is  the  condition  of  conflict  disap- 
pears. There  is  no  inward  standard  different  from 
the  outward  fact  with  which  that  outward  fact  may 
be  compared.  A  unification  of  this  kind  is  the 
goal  of  our  intelligence  and  of  our  affection,  quite 
as  much  as  of  our  aesthetic  sense ;  but  we  have  in 
those  departments  fewer  examples  of  success.  In 
the  heat  of  speculation  or  of  love  there  may  come 
moments  of  equal  perfection,  but  they  are  very 
unstable.  The  reason  and  the  heart  remain  deeply 
unsatisfied.  But  the  eye  finds  in  nature,  and  in 
some  supreme  achievements  of  art,  constant  and 
fuller  satisfaction.  For  the  eye  is  quick,  and 
seems  to  have  been  more  docile  to  the  education  of 
life  than  the  heart  or  the  reason  of  man,  and  able 
sooner  to  adapt  itself  to  the  reality.  Beauty  there- 
fore seems  to  be  the  clearest  manifestation  of  per- 
fection, and  the  best  evidence  of  its  possibility. 
If  perfection  is,  as  it  should  be,  the  ultimate  justi- 


270  THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY 

fication  of  being,  we  may  understand  the  ground 
of  the  moral  dignity  of  beauty.  Beauty  is  a 
pledge  of  the  possible  conformity  between  the  soul 
and  nature,  and  consequently  a  ground  of  faith  in 
the  supremacy  of  the  good. 


INDEX 


Achilles,  179,  187. 

Esthetic    feeling,    its    impor- 
tance, 1. 
speculation,  causes   of    its 

neglect,  2. 
theory,  its  uses,  6,  7. 

/Esthetics,  Use  of  the  word,  15. 

Angels,  55,  182. 

Apperception,  96  et  seq. 

Arahic    inscriptions    as    orna- 
ment, 195. 

Architecture,  Effects  of  Gothic, 
165,  166. 
governed  by  use,  161,  162. 

Aristotelian  forms,  156. 

Aristotle,  174,  175,  288. 

Associative  process,  198  et  seq. 

Augustine,  Saint,  quoted,  252. 

Beauty  a  value,  14  et  seq. 

as  felt  is  indescribable,  267, 

268. 
a  justification  of  things,  268, 

269. 
defined,  49  et  seq. 
verbal  definitions  quoted,  14. 
Beetlioven,  43. 
Breathing  related  to  the  sense 

of  beauty,  56. 
Burke,  124,  note. 
Byron,  quoted,  136. 
Byzantine    architecture,    108, 
109. 


Calderon,  174. 

Centaurs,  183,  256. 

Character  as  an  aesthetic  form, 
176  et  seq. 

Characters,  Ideal,  180  et  seq. 

Charles  V.'s  palace  at  the  Al- 
hambra,  44. 

Christ,  the  various  ideas  of  his 
nature,  189. 

Circle,  its  festhetic  quality,  89. 

Classicism,  French  and  Eng- 
lish, 109. 

Colonnades,  108. 

Colour,  72  et  seq. 

its  analogy  to  other  sensa- 
tions, 74,  75. 
possibility  of  an  abstract  art 
of  colour,  75. 

Comic,  The,  245  et  seq. 

Conscience,  its  representative 
character,  33,  34. 

Cost  as  an  element  of  effect, 
211  et  seq. 

Couplet,  The,  108. 

Criticism,  Use  of  the  word,  15. 

Definite  and  indefinite,  mean- 
ing of  the  terms,  138, 
note. 

Degradation  not  what  pleases 
in  the  comic,  247  et  seq. 

Democracy,  aesthetics  of  it,  109 
et  seq. 


271 


272 


INDEX 


Descartes,  16,  183. 

Disinterestedness  not  the  differ- 
entia of  aesthetic  pleas- 
ure, 37  et  seq. 

Don  Quixote,  179,  255. 

Economy  and  fitness,  214  et  seq. 

Emerson,  144. 

Epicurean  resthetics,  10,  11. 

sublime,  The,  241,  243. 
Escurial,  The,  95,  210. 
Ethos,  174,  175. 

Evil,  life  without  it  aesthetic, 
29,  30. 
in  the  second  term  of  ex- 
pression, 221  et  seq. 
conventional     use     of    the 

word,  223. 
an  occasion  of  the  sublime, 

235  et  seq. 
excluded  from  the  beautiful, 
260,  261. 
Evolution,  its  possible  tendency 
to  eliminate  imagination, 
26. 
Exclusiveness    a   sign  of    aes- 
thetic vigour,  44. 
Experience  superior  to  theory 

in  aesthetics,  11,  12. 
Expression  defined,  192  et  seq. 
of  feeling  in  another,  202, 

203. 
of  practical  values,  208  et 
seq. 
Expressiveness,    Use     of     the 
word,  197. 

Fechner,  97. 

Form,  There  is  a  beauty  of,  82 

et  seq. 
the  unity  of  a  manifold,  95 

et  seq. 
Functions  of  the  mind  may  all 

contribute  to  the   sense 

of  beauty,  53  et  seq. 


Geometrical  figures,  88  et  S2q. 

God,  the  idea  of  him  in  tradi- 
tion and  in  metaphysics, 
188,  189. 

Gods,  development  of  their 
ideal  characters,  185  et 
seq. 

Goethe,  9,  170,  179. 

Grammar,  its  analogy  to  meta- 
physics, 109. 

Gretchen,  179. 

Grotesque,  The,  256  et  seq. 

Hamlet,  179. 

Happiness  and  aesthetic  inter- 
est, 63,  65. 

Health  a  condition  of  aesthetic 
life,  54. 

Hedonism  opposed  by  the  moral 
sense,  23,  24. 

History  an  imaginative  thing, 
141,  142. 

Home  as  a  social  and  as  an 
aesthetic  idea,  64. 

Homer,  171. 

his    aesthetic    quality,  205, 

206. 
his  epithets,  179. 

Horace,  quoted,  172. 

Humour,  253  et  seq. 

Ideals  are  modified  averages, 
121  et  seq. 
immanent  in  human  nature, 

262. 
stable,  263  et  seq. 
Imagination    has   a    universal 
creative     function,    190, 
191. 
and  sense  alternately  active, 
55,  56. 
Impression  distinguished  from 

expression,  84,  85. 
Impressionism  in  painting,  134, 
135. 


INDEX 


273 


Incongruity  not  what  pleases 
in  the  comic,  247  et  seq. 

Indeterminate  organization, 131 
et  seq. 

Infinite  beauty,  the  idea  im- 
possible, 148  et  seq. 

Inspiration,  252,  253. 

KaXoKayadia,  31. 

Kant,  105. 

Keats,  quoted,  67,  105,  181,  264. 

King  Lear,  229. 

Kipling,  R.,  quoted,  68. 

Landscape,  133  et  seq. 

with  figures,  135,  136. 
Liberation  of  self,  233  et  seq. 
Love,  influence  of  the  passion, 

56  et  seq. 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  quoted,  148. 
Lower  senses,  05  et  seq. 
Lucretius,  quoted,  172. 

on  the  sublime,  236. 

Maps,  209,  210. 

Material  beauty  most  easily  ap- 
preciated, 78  et  seq. 
its  effect  the  fundamental 

one,  78. 
Materials  of  beauty  surveyed, 

76  et  ssq. 
Methods  in  aesthetics,  5. 
Michael  Angelo,  182. 
Miser's  fallacy,  its  parallel  in 

morals    and     resthetics, 

31,32. 
Modern  languages  inferior  to 

the  ancient,  173,  174. 
Moliere,  174;  quoted,  20. 
Monarchy,      its      imaginative 

value,  34,  35. 
Moral  and  esthetic  values,  23 

et  seq. 
the  authority  of  morals  over 

aesthetics,  218  et  seq. 


Morality  and  utility  jealous  of 

art,  216,  217. 
Multiplicity  in  uniformity,  97 

et  seq. 
its  defects,  106  et  seq. 
Musset,  Alfred  de,  quoted,  170, 

226. 
Mysticism    in     aesthetics,    126 

et  seq. 

Naturalism,  the  ground  of  its 

value,  21. 
Nature,    its    organization    the 

source    of     apperceptive 

forms,  152  et  seq. 
the  love  of    it   among   the 

ancients,  137,  138. 
New  York,   the    plan    of    the 

streets,  95. 
Nouns,    idea   of    a    language 

without  them,  171. 

Objectification  the  differentia 
of  aesthetic  pleasure,  44 
et  seq. 

Ornament  and  form,  63  et  seq. 

Othello,  237. 

Ovid,  quoted,  149. 

Pantheism,  its  contradictions, 

242,  243. 
Perception,  the    psychological 

theory  of  it,  45  et  seq. 
Perfection,  illusion  of  infinite, 

146  et  seq. 
possibility  of  finite,  258  et 

seq. 
Physical  pleasure  distinguished 

from  ajsthetic,  35  et  seq. 
Physiology  of    the  perception 

of  form,  85  et  seq. 
Picturesqueness        contrasted 

with  symmetry,  92. 
Platonic  ideas  useless   in   ex- 
plaining types,  117,  118. 


274 


INDEX 


Platonic  intuitions,  their  nature 
and  value,  Seiseg. 

Platouists,  159. 

Plot,  The,  174  et  seq. 

Preference      ultimately     irra- 
tional, 18  et  seq. 
necessary  to  value,  17,  18. 

Principles  consecrated  sesthet- 
ically,  31  et  seq. 

Purity,  The  aesthetic  principle 
of,  70  et  seq. 

Rationality,  the  source  of  its 

value,  19,  20. 
Religious      characters,      their 

truth,  188. 
imagination,  185  et  seq. 
'Rhyme,  173,  174. 
Romanticism,  150. 

Schopenhauer,  263. 
criticised,  37,  note, 
on  music,  69. 

Scientific  attitude  in  criticism 
opposed  to  the  aesthetic, 
20,  21. 

Sculpture,  its  development,  153, 
154. 

Self  not  a  primary  object  of 
interest,  39,  40. 

Sensuous  beauty  of  fundamen- 
tal importance,  80,  81. 

Sex,  its  relation  to  esthetic 
life,  56  et  seq. 

Shakespeare,  151,  174,  175; 
quoted,  .51,  114,  229,237, 
251. 

Shelley  quoted,  12,  244,  253. 

Sight,  its  primacy  in  percep- 
tion, 73,  74. 

Size  related  to  beauty,  123, 124. 

Sky,  The,  its  expressiveness,  8. 

Social  interests  and  their  es- 
thetic influence,  62  et  seq. 

Socrates,  his  utilitarian  aes- 
thetics, 1.57. 


Sonnet,  The,  173. 
Sound,  68  et  seq. 
Space,  its  metaphysical  value, 

66,  note. 
Stars,  the  effect  analyzed,  100 

et  seq. 
Stendhal,  61. 
Stoic  Sublime,  The,  241. 
Straight  lines,  89,  90. 
Subjectivity  of  a3sthetic  values, 

3,4. 
Sublime,  The,  its  independence 

of  the  expression  of  evil, 

239  et  seq. 
Sublimity,  233  et  seq. 
Sybaris,  216. 
Symbolists,  144. 
Symmetry,  91  et  seq. 

a  principle  of  individuation, 

93. 
limits  of  its  application,  95. 
Syntactical  form,  171  et  seq. 

Tacitus,  173,  252. 

Terms,  the  first  and  second 
terms  in  expression  de- 
fined, 195. 
influence  of  the  first  term 
in  the  pleasing  expres- 
sion of  evil,  226  et  seq. 

Theory  a  method  of  appercep- 
tion, 138  et  seq. 

Tragedy  mitigated  by  beauty 
of  form  and  the  expres- 
sion of  good,  228,  229. 
mitigated  by  the  diversity 

of  evils,  229. 
mixed    with    comedy,    224, 

225,  228. 
consists  in  treatment  not  in 
subject,  224. 

Translation  necessarily  inade- 
quate, 168. 

Truth,  grounds  of   its  value, 
22  23. 


INDEX 


275 


Truth,  mixture  of  the  expres- 
sion of  truth  with  that 
of  evil,  22^  etseq. 

Types,  their  origin,  116  et  seq. 
their  value  and  that  of  ex- 
amples, 112  et  seq. 

Ugly,  The,  not  a  cause  of  pain, 

25. 
Universality  not  the  differentia 

of  aesthetic  pleasure,  40 

et  seq. 
Utility  the  principle  of  organi- 
zation in  nature,  155  et 

seq. 
its  relation  to  beauty,  157 

et  seq. 
the  principle  of  organization 

in  the  arts,  160  et  seq. 


Value,  aesthetic  value  in  the 
second  term  of    expres- 
sion, 205  et  seq. 
all  in  one  sense  aesthetic,  28 

et  seq. 
physical,  practical,  and  neg- 
ative   transformed    into 
aesthetic,  201  et  seq. 

Venus  of  Milo,  165,  note. 

Virgin  Mary,  The,  189,  190. 

Whitman,  112. 
Wit,  250  et  seq. 
Words,  167  et  seq. 
Wordsvrorth  quoted,  105. 
Work  and  play,  25  et  seq. 

Xenophon  quoted,  123. 
his  Symposium,  157. 


Date  Due 

F  1  5  -OS                1 

